


Ash in the Mouth

by stuffy_j



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesiac Character, Amnesiac Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Frottage, Getting Back Together, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Past Character Death, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-06-22 20:56:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15590556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuffy_j/pseuds/stuffy_j
Summary: The soldier was quiet for a moment. “Who were you, in Overwatch?” he finally asked. “Who were you that the fall took everything from you and you’ve joined the enemy to bring them down from the inside? Overwatch must have been important to you.”Reaper looked away. “Doesn’t matter. The person I was is dead. I’m just Reaper now.” He paused. “What about you?” he asked, looking at the soldier again. “What’s your name?”The soldier shrugged uncomfortably. “Doesn’t matter,” he echoed Reaper’s words back to him. “Like I said, I’m just a soldier.”“So we’re a couple of cagey bastards, got it,” Reaper huffed.The soldier who can't remember who he is and the double agent mercenary Reaper team up to take down Talon, each seeking revenge for something they lost. But as the soldier looks for answers, he learns about the sins of Overwatch and its Strike Commander, Jack Morrison, a man whose apparent greed, corruption, and incompetence led to Talon exacting its chokehold on the world. Even as the soldier begins questioning the point of their quest, he and Reaper find themselves inexplicably drawn to one another.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shanablackrx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanablackrx/gifts).



> Wow. I can't believe it's finally here!! This is a story I've had in some form or another in my head for the past year, with a few tweaks here and there. I'm so excited to finally be able to post it, and I hope you all enjoy reading it! I really pushed my boundaries while writing it, and I hope that makes the story stronger for it. This is also the longest thing I've written in a very long time, and probably the fic I'm proudest of at the moment. I would love to know what you think!
> 
> Thank you so much to Kasi ([foldingcranes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foldingcranes/pseuds/foldingcranes)) for the being the best writing partner, cheerleader, brainstormer, beta reader, taskmaster, and so much more on this project. This fic would not have been possible if we hadn't suffered together.
> 
> And thank you as well to Leah ([Vertizontally](https://twitter.com/Vertizontally)) for her wonderful and truly clutch beta reading and editing!!! Just when I thought my brain was going to explode, she stepped in and saved me from myself hahaha.
> 
> Finally, I'm so excited that I was able to work with [Shana](https://shanablackrx.tumblr.com) on this project. Their art is absolutely magical, and they spoil me every day I know them. <3 You can find their art post [here!](http://shanablackrx.tumblr.com/post/176702105596/ash-in-the-mouth-rating-e-pairing)
> 
> If you want to come yell at me about various R76-related things, you can find me on tumblr at [edgedadhell](https://edgedadhell.tumblr.com) or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/stuffy_jj).

The sun was setting across the valley, turning the desert mountains a bright, vibrant red against the darkening sky, bands of purple and orange clouds highlighting the striations in the rock as the sun sank lower and lower. Shadows lengthened across the arid ground, stretching to encompass everything they touched as light faded from the sky. The twisted shrubs and cacti faded into the deepening gloom of dusk, gnarled branches prepared for another cold desert night as the temperature began to plummet.

Nearly twenty miles outside of Grand Junction, Colorado, the lights on the perimeter of Watchpoint: Grand Mesa automatically turned on, flooding the area around the compound with light. Guards bearing the insignia of Helix Security International moved around their stations, preparing the Watchpoint for the night patrol. They laughed and joked with each other as they passed, most of them nearly done with their two week shift guarding the abandoned Watchpoint.

Just outside the ring of light, a man crouched in a natural crevice within the mesa’s walls, hidden from sight but with a perfect view of a set of side doors that he knew led into the Watchpoint’s shutdown research and development facility. Shifting slightly, the man pressed a finger to the side of his head, pressing the latch that connected the large mask and visor to his face. The mask detached slightly with a small hiss of pressurized air as the red light of the visor dimmed. The low light of dusk filled his vision, but the man just tucked his head down, closing his eyes. He would sleep for a bit, wait for night to truly fall before he made his move.

***

An explosion echoed across the mesa at 2:47 a.m., though it was just a muffled pop down in Grand Junction. A few residents woke up and, mildly annoyed that they couldn't immediately identify what exactly woke them, fell right back to sleep, unaware of what was happening only a few miles from their homes. 

Alarms began blaring throughout the Watchpoint. The soldier burst through a hole in the metal and concrete wall he had just created, head ringing slightly from the force of the concussive blast that he had taken nearly head on as he ran down the hallway. Behind him, several Helix guards shouted and cursed as rubble rained down on them, a few of them attempting to fire after the fleeing soldier. He tried to load the next round of helix rockets into the pulse rifle he had just stolen, but most of his focus lay on the guards behind him. The visor illuminated a path for him to follow, precisely calibrated to ensure that he was not about to run into any debris during his escape.

The visor blipped quietly on his periphery, and the soldier cursed as he ran down another hallway. More guards coming. How many people were actually here? The placement records he had stolen must have been out of date somehow, because he had not been expecting as much resistance as he was finding. The pulse rifle was heavy but firm in his hands, and he finally managed to load more rockets, aiming at a wall that he knew led back outside. Gritting his teeth behind the mask, the soldier pulled the trigger, firing the missiles down the corridor as he kept running, ducking his head down in a vague attempt to avoid taking any shrapnel to the face when the wall exploded, rocking the building. Another wave of shouts chorused behind him as debris rained down, chunks of concrete thudding to the ground. 

The soldier ran through the dust, relying on the visor’s guidance because he couldn’t see a damn thing right now. Small flames from the rockets licked at his boots as he ran, quickly extinguished as they found no fuel in the ruined wall. He could hear guards coughing behind him, some of the more intrepid ones scrambling to follow after him as he leapt through the hole in the wall and out into the cool nighttime desert air. 

The lights around the perimeter of the Watchpoint were a dull flashing red, meant to disorient intruders, but the soldier felt his gaze sharpen. He thrived in this sort of environment, and with the pulse rifle firmly in hand, he didn’t have any other reason to stick around. As the dust settled around him, the soldier refocused his gaze on the towering cliffs above him, the flat top of the mesa disappearing into the pitch black sky, now filled with millions of stars.

 _The desert is a good place to disappear,_ said a voice in his head, a familiar drawl that he couldn’t quite place.

 _Yeah,_ said another voice, dismissive but with a smile hidden in its rich tone, _If you want to freeze to death at night and then boil in the morning. You can disappear in the desert, that’s true. Just gotta be sure you don’t disappear into yourself while you’re there. May never come out._

The soldier shook his head against the voices, and they dribbled out of his mind like water from his ear, taking the feeling of something half-forgotten with them. Glancing back one last time at the Watchpoint and the jagged hole he had blown in the wall, he slung the pulse rifle across his back in a makeshift sling and began climbing the mesa. He was going to disappear into the desert and come out the other side.

He always did.

***  
The sun was just beginning to rise as the soldier entered the outskirts of Loma, Colorado, about twenty miles northwest of Grand Junction. He was panting heavily, the mask doing its best to provide him with a higher oxygen concentration. His knee twinged with every step he took, but the soldier pushed through it--he wasn’t running any more, it would be fine. The best thing would be to get off it for the moment and let it rest. He also desperately needed some water.

The pulse rifle was heavy and conspicuous across his back, and the soldier made sure to stay out of sight of any roads, relying on his hearing to let him know if any cars were coming. Loma was quiet in the soft dawn light, windows on the small houses dotting the landscape shuttered against the morning sun. Off in the distance he could see a few tractors chugging along in some fields as clunky irrigation systems started up and began to throw water into the air. The soldier caught himself smiling faintly at the somehow familiar sight, and he frowned instead, making himself focus on the task at hand.

Passing through Loma proved to be a much simpler task than the soldier had expected, mostly because the town itself was very small and had an aura of partial abandonment. Many buildings stood empty, windows filled with cracked glass and doors boarded up with plywood. Bullet holes and scorch marks riddled the weathered brick, and the soldier finally understood why the town seemed to be nothing but a shell over emptiness out on this endless plain.

In the shadow of a weathered and bullet-scarred building sat the rusting corpse of a Bastion unit. It had clearly been scavenged for parts--torn wires peeked out from where metal panels had been ripped off the unit. Its head was attached by only a few fraying wires, resting against what remained of the shoulder. The glass of its “eye” was shattered, and it was covered in dust and bird shit and dead grass, turning it into a nearly invisible reminder of what had befallen this town.

The soldier sneered behind his mask. It had been nearly thirty years since the crisis and Loma was still a hollowed out ghost town. Hell, Overwatch had built an entire Watchpoint only twenty miles away, but the citizens of Loma had never received the aid they deserved. Just a community of farmers and scavengers, forgotten by those who were meant to help them the most.

Maybe it was a good thing Overwatch was gone.

Behind what looked to be an abandoned post office sat an old pickup truck with a cracked windshield and actual tires. It looked like it was from the early 2020s and was nearly rusted out, but then again, nearly everything in this town was in some state of disrepair. Looking around with feigned nonchalance, the soldier carefully tried the driver’s side door. It opened fairly easily, bits of rust falling off in the palm of his glove as he eased it open to try to minimize any noise.

The dash looked relatively fine, and he ducked under the steering wheel to hotwire it. Fifteen minutes later the engine coughed and sputtered its way to life before settling down into a steady hum, and the soldier hauled himself out from under the dashboard with a grunt of satisfaction. 

Time to get the hell out of dodge.

***

He drove all day, the old truck bumping and rattling across the cracked asphalt of a web of highways. He stopped at a run-down gas station and bought a cold bottle of water and a baseball cap with some crumpled bills he managed to rustle up from deep within his duffle bag. The soldier tipped his new hat in thanks at the man behind the counter, who merely grunted and returned to stuffing tobacco dip in his mouth and sucking loudly.

Hover cars flew past the soldier as he drove, some of them honking at him as he carefully kept to the speed limit. He hadn’t seen any signs that he was being followed so far, and being pulled over by the authorities for speeding would _not_ end well. The radio in the dash hissed out the occasional song over a low drone of static, and the soldier felt no desire to change it. It blended nicely with the white noise of the road.

The soldier pulled into the outskirts of La Sal, Utah just as the sky was beginning to deepen from dusk to night, the clouds a brilliant red fading to rich purple and then black as the moon came up overhead. He dumped the car in an alley behind a few rows of houses. Another, slightly more modern car sat nearby, and the soldier eyed its hovertires speculatively.

He didn’t think anyone would be looking for the old pick up, and he patted the warm, ticking hood of the truck in thanks before tearing the license plates off the front and back and folding them in half once, then in half again, trying to seal the edges together as best he could. The metal bent unwillingly, but the soldier grit his teeth and forced the the metal together before wrapping both mangled plats in an old shirt and placing them in his bag. He would dispose of them elsewhere. Maybe California if he went out that way.

Stretching, the soldier grimaced at the way his back popped and began to ache after hours of driving, and his stomach was cavernously empty. Maybe taking a short break for the night would be a good idea; the thought of sleeping in a bed with real pillows filled him with a manic sort of pleasure. He had about two hundred dollars stashed away, and after his successful mission, he could spend one night living large.

On a strip of road less than five miles outside of La Sal, the soldier pulled into the parking lot of a dingy motel with an even dingier dive bar next to it. The motel receptionist didn’t even look at him once, but he kept his ball cap pulled low, just in case. The room was just as dingy as the exterior of the motel had promised, a single dim lamp mercifully hiding most of the odd stains in shadow. Throwing his bag on the bed, the soldier carefully stashed his visor and the pulse rifle out of sight before heading over to the bar.

The bar was mostly cheap, scratched up wood with a few badly damaged dart boards in the back. A human bartender stood staring up at a crackling television in one corner, while an old, creaky omnic slowly washed dirty glasses beside him.

“Jack and coke,” the soldier said, coughing in an attempt to clear his throat. It had been...weeks, he realized, since he’d last spoken more than two words to anyone else. His voice was gritty with disuse, and he coughed again as the bartender thunked down a glass in front of him, a generous amount of whiskey swirling inside.

“No Coke today, shipment ain’t in yet. But here’s the Jack,” the bartender said, eyes still firmly on the TV, which was playing a local news channel. The picture quality was hazy, to say the least.

“Alright,” the soldier said, and he sat at a small table a little ways from the bar, sipping the whiskey. He squinted at the TV, and the bartender glanced over at him before raising the volume. Suddenly the reporter’s voice could be heard through the tinny speakers, and the soldier’s eyes widened slightly before he quickly schooled his face back into passive disinterest.

“...break-in yesterday at the decommissioned Watchpoint: Grand Mesa near Grand Junction, Colorado. The Watchpoint, which has been guarded by Helix Security since 2072, used to be a research and development facility before the international peace-keeping taskforce Overwatch was disbanded. Officials at Grand Mesa the night of the break-in say that they have put out a search for the assailant and are cooperation with various U.S. security agencies as part of the manhunt. While no exact description of the target is available, officials do say they believe the target has advanced military training and knowledge, and that they should be considered armed and dangerous by citizens.We will keep viewers updated as information becomes available.”

The soldier glanced around the bar once more as the broadcast moved on to a local story about a cow that gave birth to purple calves or something. Besides himself and the bartender, not a single one of the other five patrons in the bar were watching the television, and none of them had any interest in a story about a break-in at a now-defunct Overwatch facility. Relaxing his shoulders slightly, the soldier raised his glass to his lips, fingers trembling as he closed his eyes and sipped, feeling the liquid slide down his throat and pool in his empty belly, burning the whole way.

Made sense that no one really seemed to care about Overwatch. After all, it was dead.

Jack Morrison killed it.


	2. Deadlock

Two weeks later found the soldier taking apart the pulse rifle piece by piece and cleaning it on the ratty checkered cover of an old motel bed just outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico. Sweat dripped down his forehead, the room sweltering in the late spring heat as the small air conditioning unit in the window kicked and sputtered and buzzed but ultimately failed to put out any sort of cool air.

Satisfied with his work, the soldier leaned the gun up against the wall before turning to an old holopad and notebook on the room’s table. He clicked the pad on, waiting patiently for the thin blue screen to load, staring blankly at the spinning Overwatch logo on its surface. Finally his files all loaded, and the soldier pulled a bottle of whiskey from his bag, settling in to look over his mission once more.

He had been making his way down to Mexico over the past few weeks, wanted to dig up Los Muertos out of Dorado and search for any clues he could find there. He knew they had ties to all sorts of nasty underground operations, and had suddenly been growing stronger over the past five years or so. The soldier had a feeling that they had caught Talon’s attention, and where Talon appeared, that’s where he wanted to be.

At least, that was his plan, until he had heard about Deadlock’s resurgence in New Mexico and decided to check it out. He pulled up decades old Overwatch files on his pad, reading over the painstaking notes drafted by various agents regarding the former glory days of the gang. It all seemed like fairly basic stuff--lists detailing Deadlock’s drug-running operations, its weapon-smuggling ring, local politicians who had been bribed or coerced into silence so that the gang could continue to spread their influence across the southwest U.S. The soldier flipped through the reports a little more quickly, keeping an eye out for names, locations, anything that would help him find more information on current Deadlock members.

As he flipped through to the final report, the images on the screen blurred slightly, like the pad was malfunctioning, before coming back crisp and clear. Frowning slightly, the soldier realized that there were suddenly a dozen more files available to read, all of them with a red DECRYPTED notification next to their links. 

“What the--” the soldier muttered, clicking hesitantly on the first of the decrypted files. The screen filled with what looked like a standard Overwatch report--only the Overwatch logo and heading had been replaced by a red and black stylized circle with what looked like an animal skull inside it, the word “Blackwatch” emblazoned across the top of each page. The report’s author was listed as Commander Gabriel Reyes.

A sudden, empty ache blossomed in the soldier’s chest. He rubbed at it absently, pouring himself another glass of whiskey as he focused on Reyes’ words.

If the Overwatch reports had been relatively bland and uninformative, the Blackwatch reports were the exact opposite, and it became clear to the soldier who exactly had carried out the Deadlock mission. Reyes was detailed and exact, and the soldier hungrily took in the names of important Deadlock leaders who had been killed or detained during the final sting operation that had “officially” taken the gang down. A couple of names stuck out to him: Bea Galvez and Tuco Beneke. After cross-referencing their names in a few newspapers, the soldier discovered both of them had recently been released from prison, having only garnered relatively light sentences for smuggling and nothing else. Public reaction to their release had been muted; the soldier wondered if thirty-some odd years was enough time for people to forget the power and terror Deadlock had once visited upon them.

Most of the other Blackwatch reports weren’t written by Reyes, but instead were from the perspective of various Blackwatch agents who had infiltrated Deadlock, becoming part of the gang to take it down from the inside. The agents explained how they had quickly risen through the ranks, becoming trusted members of the Deadlock leadership--and the difficult decisions they had to make along the way. Secure communication lines allowed them to relay information back to Reyes, who decided when and where to strike to officially take them down.

The final Blackwatch report was written by Reyes again, though it seemed pretty standard in recounting the final sting operation. Only two things stood out to the soldier: a small note regarding a young gang member who had been taken in for questioning, and a passing mention of a nearby gorge that Deadlock had previously used as part of their network, but that had long since been abandoned because of rock slides. The soldier felt a small smile crack across his face. There it was.

Standing up from the table, the soldier glanced through the slitted blinds of the window at the fading light as night fell across the red desert. He could go out tonight, take down the fledgling beginnings of Deadlock if he was lucky, and be back on the road to Dorado by tomorrow to continue his mission. 

The bathroom light buzzed and hummed as the soldier flipped it on, going over to the sink to splash some lukewarm water on his face in an attempt to wash off the sweat. Looking up into the mirror, he frowned at the face that he did not recognize. He knew, in some abstract way of understanding, that it was _his_ face, but -- well. He didn’t remember much of anything anymore, and he supposed not knowing his own face was a side effect of that.

As he stared at himself, his eyes seemed to blur just like the holopad earlier, and suddenly the scars on his face were two bleeding gashes again, blood running down his forehead and dripping into his eyes, the taste of rusted iron in his mouth as the soldier gasped and sat up in the middle of smoking, twisted metal, broken glass, and crushed concrete. Fire burned around him, and he could hear distant screams mixing with sirens, though everything sounded fuzzy, like someone had stuffed cotton in his ears. His head ached, and he hissed as an exploratory touch to the base of his skull came back wet with blood. Well, that explained the headache. And the...confusion. Where was he? What was going on?

He stumbled to his feet, hissing in pain as his broken left arm made itself known, nearly collapsing as he tried to put weight on it. His clothes were ripped and burned from whatever had just happened, and he staggered through the wreckage. _Run, run, run!_ his heart beat out, slamming against the inside of his chest as he was suddenly filled with a potent mix of fear and adrenaline. _Run, or you’ll die!_

So he ran, broken arm clutched to his chest, blinking blood from his eyes, letting his legs carry him into the darkness. He ran for what felt like hours until his breaths burned his lungs and his legs felt like they were going to collapse. And then he realized he was in a small town, a village really, the beginnings of snow starting to fall from the sky and dust over the land. All the lights in the houses were off, and he didn’t dare to make a sound as he stumbled through the streets. If he could just--find somewhere, a hidden alcove maybe, or an old barn, he could set his arm and sleep for a little bit. 

The blood on his face had long since clotted, but his vision was blurry from exhaustion now, and the cold was beginning to set in. He nearly collapsed against a doorway that seemed to appear out of nowhere at the end of an alleyway, hidden from view by some stacked crates. He paused for a moment, shoulder leaning against the doorway as he tried to think about what to do, pain throbbing up his arm as the adrenaline slowly leeched out of his body, leaving only stark awareness of the condition he was in behind. He needed to rest as soon as possible, needed to split his arm if he could.

He glanced up at the doorway, wondering if the overhang above would provide enough coverage from the lightly falling snow.

A green light blinked on in the darkness of the doorframe, and the door suddenly swung inwards. He stumbled as his support was suddenly gone, crashing against the floor inside with his good shoulder, He grunted in pain as fire shot up his broken arm from the impact, shutting his eyes tightly for a moment. 

Soft golden light suddenly bathed the room, and he opened his eyes again to figure out what the hell was going on. He was laying on a clean stone floor, just inside the doorway to what looked like an entry room. A short wooden bench sat against the wall to his right, and another, much more sophisticated door stood directly in front of him, its metal surface smooth and without any visible way to open it.

“Overwatch personnel code 0000000076 identified,” came a calm, slightly robotic female voice. “This safehouse is currently stocked for up to three weeks of survival.” The metal door swung open, revealing a larger room with a bed, a hot plate and pantry, and a bathroom beyond. “Emergency medical supplies are available,” the voice said again, then apparently shut off completely.

Cautiously, he stood up and looked around. There were no visible traps; the room beyond the metal door appeared to be tidy and safe, if a little dusty. A stack of sheets and a blanket was folded at the foot of the bed, and he could see a cabinet with a red cross on it in the bathroom. He stepped through the metal doorway; the door slowly swung shut behind him. 

“Safehouse measures initiated,” the voice said. He heard a series of clicks echo somewhere.

Sucking in a deep breath against the pain that was now thrumming constantly through his body, he stumbled to the medical kit and ripped it open, sighing in relief at the sight of bandages, local anesthesia, and sterile stitching kits. He grit his teeth as he injected the anesthesia into his lower arm, sighing in relief as the burning pain subsided before going numb. 

Finally, he looked into the mirror, and a face he did not know stared back at him, wide eyes starkly blue among the blood and ash that covered him, torn by two nasty wounds that split his lips and over his forehead and across his nose. They would need stitches, but with only one good arm, he wasn’t sure how neat and clean the scars would be. His clothes were burnt and torn in spots, all he had left a tight black shirt with a ratty, ashy hoodie and a pair of military-issue pants.

“What is going on?” he whispered, and he did not recognize the sound of his own voice as it scoured through his throat.

“Now showing local and international news,” said the helpful robotic voice. A panel in the wall by the bed slid open, revealing a medium-sized screen that, true to word, began playing two different news channels. Both were showing the same thing, and he turned to look.

Finally, understanding dawned.

Overwatch was burning, and he had barely escaped with his life.

***

Shaking his head violently, the soldier growled, splashing more water on his face in an attempt to dispel the only concrete memories he had. The scars had healed, if not particularly nicely, but they were finally beginning to fade to a healthier looking pink on his face. His arm twinged occasionally, but the break had healed quickly, and the soldier had been able to leave the safehouse within the week, trying to put as much distance between himself and the former Swiss Overwatch base as he could.

Going back into the bedroom, the soldier dug in his bag’s pocket for the ring, fingers finding the cool metal easily. Taking it out, he sat down heavily on the bed, rubbing the engraving on the inside of the ring with his thumb. _Always completing me, my 76. Love, 24._ It had been on a chain around his neck, the only thing he’d had after the explosion that had any clue to his identity. There was also the fact that it coincided with the personnel number the safehouse voice had called him. Even if it wasn’t exactly true, the soldier had taken to calling himself 76 when no other obvious answer had popped up. All he knew was that he was connected to Overwatch somehow, was at the Swiss base when it had blown up, and had somehow survived. And he wanted answers. 

The safehouse had provided limited access to Overwatch debriefing and security files, and 76 had been able to access some internal Blackwatch memos regarding the terrorist group Talon. It was as good a place to start as any, and he had set out intending to figure out just what the hell happened.

As the desert outside Albuquerque slipped deeper into night, the soldier clicked his mask and visor into place, the comforting red of the screen taking over his vision. He had been hitting up various Overwatch bases and safehouses, hacking into databases as best he could to figure out his next steps. He hoped Deadlock might provide a little more insight as he set out for the gorge, running easily through the cooling desert air. The pulse rifle was heavy and secure across his back--a precaution. He didn’t want to have to use it.

Following the information in the Blackwatch debriefings made the gorge easy to find, and the soldier could hear faint noises coming from deeper in the canyon. A dilapidated diner sat at the entrance, filled with a variety of weapons transport cases. Some of them were open, showing off the military-grade weaponry inside, and the soldier rolled his eyes at the unprofessionalism. _Gang members_ , he reminded himself. They weren’t always as concerned about security as they should be, which was obvious from the way he was able to slip into the gorge undetected. 

There was a set of cameras hanging from the ceiling, but the soldier ignored them. They were fixed point cameras, and he had memorized their route as soon as he’d seen them. As long as he stayed out of their sight, he would be fine.

Derailed train cars sat outside the diner, and the soldier slipped between the hulking metal husks quickly. He could see an equally abandoned gas station a little ways down the gorge, windows cracked and with more cases stacked outside the walls. A drop point, he guessed, his suspicions confirmed just a moment later as a delivery drone dropped from the sky to the roof of the station, leaving a moment later with a crate attached to it. 

There was still no one in sight, and the moon shone down high and bright on the desert, the walls of the canyon casting shadows across the ground. The soldier’s moves were slow but deliberate, moving steadily down the gorge, looking for anything that might prove useful. So far there was nothing but guns, drugs, and dilapidated buildings -- exactly what he expected from a newly reformed gang trying to get back on its feet.

And then the moon’s light shifted slightly, hitting the cliff face in front of him, and he saw the doors. 

The soldier’s eyes widened behind his visor as he scrambled for cover in another shadow. The doors were huge, metal, and built solidly into the rock of the canyon with no gaps or cracks. This was the work of professionals, not some two-bit gang.

He pressed a finger to the side of his mask, flipping through options on his visor until the metal of the door was lit up with a strange orange light before becoming slightly translucent, filaments of yellow sparking all through it and leading off into the darkness behind the door. Nodding to himself, he let the visor fade back to regular night vision. 

So. Deadlock had a much more sophisticated security system, but only for whatever was behind this door. Which meant that everything out front was a carefully constructed decoy. A distraction so that if the feds ever came knocking, Deadlock could batten down the hatches back here and weather them out. 

The soldier considered his options for a moment. He had wanted to keep this mission as stealthy as possible--get in, find information, call the feds to come arrest everyone, get out. But now…

With a sigh, he swiftly pulled out the pulse rifle, took aim, and fired a set of helix rockets at the door, blowing a hole right through the metal and smirking as an alarm began blaring inside the Deadlock base.

Knowing there wasn’t much time, he ran through the hole, ignoring the smoke and small fires on the other side, looking around the cavernous room he entered. More cases and crates which he assumed were filled with weapons and drugs were stacked all around, rows of them disappearing off into the darkness of the high ceilings. Metal walkways were suspended above, and the soldier could hear confused shouts beginning to rise above the noise of the alarm as footsteps shook the platforms. 

Now was his chance.

Holding the rifle at the ready, he slipped past the gang members that were beginning to come investigate, hiding among the crates as they ran past him. None of them seemed too observant, but the soldier noticed the high-grade weaponry they all carried with them. It was expensive stuff -- a little _too_ expensive. 

Raised voices in the back caught his attention, and he ran forward, listening closely.

“Someone needs to contact them as soon as possible,” a woman was saying, frustration evident in her southern drawl. “We’ve got nothing on any of the cameras, and somehow someone blew a big hole through our door!”

“I’m sending a message right now,” said someone else, their voice a smooth baritone. “If nothing else, Talon needs to send someone to take a look at the door and figure out what the fuck happened.”

The soldier didn’t even think.

He crashed into what looked like a small, dingy office, a few desks with computers whirring in the dim light. A man and a woman were inside, the man seated at one of the computers and hurriedly typing out a message. The woman turned towards the soldier, mouth open as though she were about to scold him, before her expression turned to one of shock.

“Hands up!” the soldier demanded, pulse rifle pointed at them. The two slowly put their hands up, glancing at each other as they did so. “I’ve called the feds, they’re already on their way here,” he lied. “You have two options: you either tell me who your contact in Talon is and I let the feds take you alive, or I shoot you now and figure it out for myself. Your choice.”

The man at the computer ground his teeth together. “What should we do, Bea?” he asked the woman, voice low.

76 growled, moved closer to the man and stuck his rifle in his face. “Every word out of your mouth that’s not a name will be counted towards the ‘shoot me’ option,” he said. 

“We don’t have a goddamn contact in Talon,” the woman spat out.

“Don’t lie to me!” the soldier said, shoving the rifle closer to the man -- Tuco, he guessed, who stiffened slightly.

“We aren’t lying to you,” Tuco said, and the soldier could tell he was carefully modulating his voice to be as calm as possible. 

And then the computer gave a short, quiet _bing_ , alerting its user that a message had been successfully sent. Tuco closed his eyes in exasperation.

The soldier shot him in the head.

Bea screamed and leapt over the desk between her and the soldier, drawing a small pistol strapped to her side as she did so. “You fucking bastard!” she yelled, trying to aim, but her shot went wild, the bullet glancing off an exposed pipe in the corner of the office and breaking it. The soldier brought the pulse rifle up, using its bulky weight as a shield against her uncontrolled, swinging attacks.

“I told you, don’t lie to me!” he grunted, jabbing the butt of the pulse rifle into Bea’s unprotected stomach, knocking her back as she gasped for air. She still tried to leap at him, bringing the pistol up once more, and he used one hand to grab her wrist and headbutt her. He could hear the crack of her nose as he broke it. “Reyes should have wiped Deadlock out a long time ago,” he said, knocking the pistol from her hands and kicking it across the floor so she couldn’t reach it. 

She looked up at him and smiled, and she looked like a cornered wolf--blood in her teeth, wounded, but knowing she could get in one last shot before defeat.

“So you’re with Overwatch, huh?” she said, a faint wheezing laugh bursting out of her throat. “And no one -- no one told you? You don’t know?” She started to laugh harder, blood dripping down her chin.

“I know enough,” the soldier said, and he hit her over the head with his rifle, knocking her out and cutting off the jeering laughter. It rang in his ears, even in the sudden silence.

Taking a moment to glance around the room, the soldier grabbed the computer Tuco had been using off the desk. Glancing down at the dead man and the steadily-growing pool of blood on the floor, he quickly rifled through Tuco’s pockets, finding a personal keycard for the computer, which he slipped into his own pocket. After one final look around, the soldier walked out of the office. The alarm was still blaring, but everything seemed… quieter, somehow. Muted.

Eyeing the crates of weapons and drugs stacked around the warehouse space, the soldier sighed heavily and reloaded the helix rockets in his rifle. He needed to find the electrical grid.

Hastily sneaking through the Deadlock base once more, he opened the communications channel on his visor, leaving a short, anonymous tip regarding the Deadlock hideout with Albuquerque’s Drug Enforcement Agency. “It’ll probably be on fire by the time you get here,” he finished with a grunt as he finally found what he was looking for. “Seemed to be burning pretty bad when I last saw it.” He cut off the message, rooting around in one of his pockets as he stood in front of the shoddily-wired electrical system. Looks like Talon hadn’t done everything around here, then.

He pulled out a small but powerful explosive--another gift from Grand Mesa--and placed it within the largest and most snarled coil of wires, tripping the switch. A small _whirr_ came from the device, indicating it was on. The soldier dropped his hand and began to run. He had five minutes to finish up and get out of here.

As he passed the office again, he hesitated for a moment before sighing heavily through his nose and making a sharp turn to pick up Bea from where she was still passed out. Using a couple extension cords he found coiled in a corner of the office, he carefully tied her hands behind her back and her feet together, ensuring she wouldn’t be able to escape before the feds arrived. Throwing her with ease over his shoulder, the soldier spun around and fired a round of rockets into the largest stack of crates, staggering back slightly as the rockets exploded into a ball of flame that began to engulf the weaponry, triggering other, smaller explosions as fire started to spread. Sweat began to form at his temples, but he ran back towards the blast doors and the hole he had originally created. Most of the Deadlock gang was milling around, examining the hole and talking to each other, and the soldier cursed as he tried to hide. It felt like the flames were at his back.

Clearing his throat roughly, he hefted Bea a little higher on his shoulders before shouting “Fire!” as loudly as he could. “Fire!” he repeated, watched as a few gang members heard him and began racing back towards the now-visible flames. Everyone’s attention appeared to be on the flickering haze that was spreading from further back in the base and then he heard them. Sirens. Coming from the entrance to the gorge. Fuck. The feds were here much quicker than he expected. It was now or never.

With a grunt, the soldier sprinted towards the hole in the door, leaping through it as fast as he could. He needed to put distance between himself and the hideout, needed to get as far away as possible. The dry walls of the canyon felt like they were closing in on him as time ticked down, he didn’t know how long he had, it was coming any second, a slow, relentless creep crawling up his throat--

He heard a muffled pop behind him, then a series of other small pops. And then the whole base shook and rumbled down the canyon, and he could hear the scream of metal tearing apart. All the air felt like it was sucked out of gorge as a fireball exploded through the door, scorching the cliff sides, licking at his heels as he ran faster and faster. Suddenly panting, the soldier placed Bea’s unconscious form just outside the abandoned gas station before bolting, legs trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline at the same time, heart pounding in his ears as he ran.

When the sound of the explosions faded from his ears, the soldier found himself heaving over the motel toilet, knees pressed against the cool, hard tile as he clung to the porcelain like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the surface of the earth. His mouth was dry, and he gagged as awareness hit him like a truck, closing his eyes as he evacuated the mostly-empty contents of his stomach. He dry-heaved a few more times before forcing himself to take deep breaths, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, carefully, calmly… one, two, three, four, five, he counted over and over again. Finally his roiling stomach settled into a much more manageable ache.

As soon as he felt halfway in control of himself again, the soldier heaved to his feet, flushing the toilet and moving to the sink to wash his hands and rinse the taste of vomit out of his mouth. He could see the pulse rifle and the dark shape of the closed laptop laying on the bed in the other room, reflected in the cracked bathroom mirror. Everything appeared to be in one piece, which was a relief.

Spitting out the metallic-tasting water, the soldier quickly brushed his teeth before shedding his mask and jacket. He picked up the computer and sat on the floor, his legs still trembling underneath him. There was a slot for the keycard on the side of the laptop, and the screen lit up as soon as he inserted it, opening up Tuco’s final message. Excellent. He planned to read as much information as he could get from this machine.

Three hours later, the soldier could see the faint line of sunlight on the horizon as dawn began to stretch over the earth, and his eyes burned with exhaustion. It looked like Deadlock’s supplies came from a few places, including Dorado, Mexico, and just outside Managua, Nicaragua. While neither location had specific ties to Talon, the soldier gathered that they probably had another trail he could follow that would lead him closer to the elusive terrorist group.

He rubbed at his eyes, massaging the thin skin of his temples in an attempt to stave off the headache he could feel building inside him. One last search through the files, maybe something in the archived folders would have some useful information--

He clicked on a document, which was dated just a couple of months before Reyes had initiated the final sting operation against Deadlock. It was a series of budgets and expense reports, an endless sea of charts and numbers. He scrolled through it idly, contemplating just shutting the laptop and rolling over for some sleep. 

And then he paused, frowned at the screen, and scrolled up two pages, back to a weapons receipt, a record of sales made over the course of a year to one organization: Overwatch. Scrolling down again, the soldier’s eyes widened and then narrowed as he sneered. Jack Morrison’s signature was scrawled at the bottom of the invoice. Corruption from within.

How fucking typical. Reyes must not have known about it; otherwise, why bother taking down Deadlock?

The soldier slammed the computer shut and closed his eyes tightly against the dawning light coming through the windows. If Morrison wasn’t already dead, the soldier would have killed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be posted in about a week! With additional art!!


	3. Los Muertos

“We have a new priority mission for you.”

Rolling his eyes behind his mask, the mercenary known as Reaper took the folder handed to him and began idly flipping through it. “What’s this about?” he asked. The only picture in the folder was grainy and washed out, showing nothing more than an indistinct figure with some sort of...glowing mask? 

“This is the target, I’m assuming?” he said, holding up the photo.

Vialli nodded, steepling his fingers together from across the table. “Yes. Unfortunately, we don’t know much, which is why we’re sending you. Last known location was Albuquerque, New Mexico, but we’re pretty sure he’s heading to Dorado next.”

Reaper cocked his head, reappraising the figure in the photo. “So he’s the one who took out Deadlock?” he murmured, slightly impressed. Vialli sighed and nodded.

“Yes. Completely disrupted our operations there, and destroyed a large amount of product. We’ll probably be in the hole for the southwest United States this quarter.” He clicked his tongue, annoyed. “And if he’s really headed down to Dorado, then he probably figured out the supply line, so we need to stop him before he gets started. At the moment he’s just a gnat, but we don’t want him growing any stronger.”

Reaper nodded, closing the folder as his mind spun. “Any known aliases?” he asked.

“None that we are aware of,” Vialli said, bringing up the information folder on his own holopad. “Seems to be working alone. We are reasonably certain that he is connected to the break-in at Grand Mesa a few weeks ago, but it’s unclear if he has any former or current connection to Overwatch.”

Reaper made a vaguely affirmative noise. “Any other sightings? Or is this the first time we’re hearing about this guy?”

Vialli nodded, tapping a few buttons and bringing up a news article from a few weeks ago. Reaper raised an eyebrow, recognizing the entrance to Watchpoint: Grand Mesa underneath the headline. Hadn’t been his favorite of the Watchpoints, but the R&D department there had been top notch. 

“This was taken by a wildlife camera outside the base. Sombra got it and wiped it clean,” Vialli said, handing Reaper the pad. “The blast patterns in both locations are nearly identical, indicating it was the same weapon used. Probably the C-version heavy pulse rifle Helix Security internally reported as stolen after the break-in.”

Handing the pad back, Reaper crossed his arms. “What do you want me to do about him?” he asked. Tracking him probably wouldn’t be too hard, especially if he did follow the pattern and head towards Dorado, though the fact that this was the first time he was hearing about this vigilante proved that he was adept at staying very under the radar. 

“I don’t particularly care,” Vialli said, “But we can’t let him keep going. So either catch him and bring him to us, or kill him. If you can get any information out of him, that would be great, but at the moment I just want him out of our hair.” He studied Reaper for a moment. “Find him quickly.”

Reaper nodded. He intended to do just that.

***

Surveying the damage to the Deadlock hideout from atop the canyon walls, Reaper had to admit that whoever he was hunting knew what he was doing. The whole gorge was cordoned off, police and federal agents swarming the area at all times of day and night as they collected evidence from the burned-out shell of a base that had been left behind. Stacks of badly burned weaponry and drug crates were sectioned off as more and more was unearthed from the former warehouse, and Reaper sighed as he spotted several boxes with the Talon logo among the recovered evidence.

Great. That was going to make moving in the shadows a little more difficult. At the same time, Reaper couldn’t stop the small smile that curled in the corner of his mouth. It was always nice to have someone else help you with your own work.

Letting himself break down into a cloud of nanites, Reaper disappeared from the edge of the canyon, rematerializing at a nearby Talon hideout that had been used specifically for checking in on the gang. The explosion and subsequent bust of the remaining members of the Deadlock gang had been the only thing on the news for the past few days; he’d seen a few familiar faces in the coverage, but not too many. After all, he’d busted Deadlock a long time ago.

“Bringing back any memories?” a smug voice taunted in his ear, and Reaper rolled his eyes.

“What are you talking about, Sombra.”

“Well, you know, since you spent so much time in New Mexico a few years ago, I figured you’d be enjoying the chance to hang out around your old stomping grounds,” she said. “Taking out Deadlock was one of your most successful missions, wasn’t it _Gabe_? Well,” she paused, mock sympathy entering her voice, “I don’t know if we can call it a success anymore, considering Deadlock came crawling back out of the ground like a cicada and our mystery man had to squash it for you.”

“Don’t call me that,” Reaper growled. “How long have you been sitting on top of the hacked Blackwatch files without telling anyone?”

Sombra giggled over the comms. “Oh, Gabriel,” she sighed, though there was an obvious smirk in her voice. Reaper wanted nothing more than to reach through his earpiece and strangle her. “You should know that a lady never reveals her secrets.”

“Don’t you have anything else you should be doing.”

Sombra sighed again, but this time it was real. “Vialli wanted me to check in,” she said, sounding bored. “He wants your opinion on how salvageable Deadlock’s shit is.”

“It’s not,” Reaper said. “Everything’s locked down tight, and what isn’t locked down has been blown to shit. This guy knows what he’s doing, and the DEA has been itching to get their hands on Deadlock for a while now. It’s not worth it to Vialli to try to get anything out of this.”

“Damn,” Sombra said, not sounding all that disappointed. “I’ll let him know. At some point.”

“Any updates or sightings on the target?”

“None,” Sombra said. “Whoever this guy is, he’s good. He’s avoiding all my eyes somehow. But he also hasn’t shown up in Dorado yet, so you still have time to get down there.”

“Affirmative,” Reaper said, then shut off his comms. With a heavy sigh, he sat down on the small bed in the safehouse, taking off his mask and letting it disappear with a wisp of smoke in his hands. He discarded his gloves next, taking care to not damage the claws as he set them down, hunching over on the bed in the darkening gloom of evening.

He needed to find this man before Talon figured out where he was, or Reaper was going to lose the element of surprise if he wasn’t careful.

“I’m getting closer, Jack,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. The room was bathed in a warm golden light from the last sliver of the setting sun outside. “I’m going to find out what this guy knows, and I’m going to do it. I promised I would, and you know I never go back on my promises to you.” 

Carefully fishing out the chain from inside his shirt, Reaper spread the silver dog tags out across the palm of his hand. They rattled together lightly, the only thing he had left of Jack. There hadn’t even been a body left by the time the fires had died down. 

“I’m going to kill them all, Jack.”

***

_Hands come around his waist, and he jerks slightly, confused, before a soft “Hey, sweetheart,” is whispered in his ear and he relaxes back into the grip with a smile. A kiss is pressed to the exposed skin of his neck as the arms tug him closer._

_“What are you doing here?” he asks, but doesn’t turn around. Can’t. There’s a sick, sticky layer of fear underneath the contentment thrumming through his body right now, and turning around will only break the surface and plunge him down into its depths._

_“Can’t I just hold my husband?” the voice says, and it’s garbled, he realizes, like there’s static creeping into a transmission. He can’t see the hands around him; they flicker in and out of existence at the edge of his peripheral vision. There’s hot breath on his ear. He wants to turn his head, but he just stares forward._

_The voice says his name, but he can’t hear it for some reason, and he frowns. “What?” he asks, and he tries to turn but the hands on his waist squeeze in warning, too tight for a split second before relaxing like nothing had happened. He gasps at the sudden pain._

_“You okay, sweetheart?” the voice asks, but suddenly it sounds like it’s miles away, fading into the distance, leaving a record scratch of static behind, like one of the old car radios out of the farm._

_He turns as fast as he can, the hands at his waist slack and loose, but there’s nothing behind him, no one, no hands holding him, no comforting chest to lean against, just a far-off voice calling his name but he can’t hear it, can’t hear what it’s saying. Everything is getting brighter until he has to squint his eyes shut against the light, it’s blinding him, burning, there’s a roaring in his ears--_

The soldier woke to darkness, a hollow ache thudding dully in his chest just behind his heart. He felt tears sliding from the corner of his eyes down the sides of his face, wetting the pillow beneath him as he stared up at the ceiling, obscured by the dark. The dream was already fading from his memory, falling away like the voice. 

He sat up in the bed, shuffling around in the dark until he found his bag and pulled out the ring from its hidden pocket. He lay back down, holding the ring in his hand and running his thumb over and over the inscription on the inside. Certainty settled into his bones like a lead weight, cold and unyielding.

Whoever he had lost was dead, burned away from him in the explosion that had apparently taken more than just his memory.

He clenched the ring in his fist, felt the edge of the metal bite into the skin of his palm. _Overwatch_ had taken everything from him. _Talon_ had taken everything from him. 

One was already ash. He would make sure the other joined it, no matter how long it took.

***

It took a few weeks, but Reaper finally found him in Dorado. Exactly where he expected, just not when. 

Reaper had arrived a few days earlier and decided to lay low and wait, just in case the target did show up. And oh, he did. Somehow, he took out a whole Los Muertos escort group all by himself, surviving a nearly-direct grenade blast in the process. Reaper watched from the shadows as the little girl the target had been protecting ran off into the night, clutching her coin purse tightly.

The man staggered down the alleyway, and Reaper could tell he was more hurt than he’d let the girl believe. Soft, ragged panting came from the man’s mask, and Reaper followed quietly. 

The man took a winding path through the city’s streets and alleyways, and Reaper memorized the route quickly, making note of the Los Muertos tags on certain buildings and above doors. A large portion of the town was controlled by the gang, Reaper knew, and they were a bit like Deadlock -- drug and weapons smuggling mostly, with a little human and omnic trafficking thrown in. Partially funded by Talon. He had little doubt that was where the escort group had gotten their surprisingly advanced weaponry from.

A little lost in his own thoughts, Reaper was nearly caught by the punch that came straight for his face, ducking out of the way just in time.

The man in the mask growled and flung himself at Reaper, catching him around the middle and sending them both crashing to the street, the back of Reaper’s head impacting painfully with the asphalt.

“Who are you!” the man growled, pinning Reaper to the floor with his weight. “Why are you following me!”

Reaper groaned and shook his head, trying to clear out the fog of pain. “I just want to talk,” he said, dissolving into smoke underneath the other man and reforming a few feet away. The man was immediately on his feet, reaching for the pulse rifle hanging from his back, and Reaper’s eyes narrowed behind his mask.

“Absolutely not,” he said, racing forward, letting his torso turn to smoke as the man fired twice before he was pinned against the wall behind them, Reaper’s arm across his throat. “Will you fucking _listen_ to me!” he growled in the man’s face.

“Fuck off,” the man said, and headbutted Reaper. Their masks clanged loudly in the alley as Reaper cursed and backed away, the force of the blow unexpectedly painful. The only saving grace was that the man also appeared to be in pain as well, though he was still clear-headed enough to be bringing his gun up once more, aiming for Reaper.

“I have information about Talon,” Reaper tried, but the man obviously had no intention of listening.

“I don’t need your information,” he snarled, swinging the rifle around again and letting off another burst of shots that Reaper was just barely able to avoid, turning to smoke and twisting around the man. “I know you’re with Talon, you fucking terrorist, and all I want is to kill you!”

Reaper tilted his head at the pure venom in the man’s tone. There was true hatred there, dripping from every word and action as the two of them lunged at each other in the alleyway, trading blows back and forth. Reaper was careful to turn to smoke every time the man tried to shoot him, but he didn’t summon his own guns.

He wanted this man alive.

After a punch to the gut that was only partially alleviated by his body armor, Reaper gritted his teeth and admitted to himself that whoever this guy was, he wasn’t going to talk to Reaper here and now. With an inward sigh, Reaper decided it was time to stop playing games. Pulling out one of his shotguns, he spun around, avoiding the incoming blow to the head, and slammed the butt of his gun into the back of the man’s own head, where the hardy mask wasn’t protecting.

The man groaned in pain and sank to his knees in front of Reaper, who looked at him with his head tilted. Curious. On some people, that would be a killing blow. On most people, it would at least knock them out.

“You have a thick skull,” Reaper said. The man looked up at him, and Reaper could tell his vision was hazy, even through the visor. “I’m not going to kill you,” Reaper promised, then hit him with his gun once more. 

That did the trick. The man slumped to the ground, obviously knocked out, his chest rising and falling in short, fluttery breaths. “Fucking finally,” Reaper muttered, putting his guns away and stooping down to get a better look at the man he’d been tracking for the last few weeks.

He was strong, Reaper could tell (his head still throbbed from the earlier blow), with broad shoulders and powerful arms. The hair on his head was white and thinning slightly, meaning he was either older than Reaper expected or genetics weren’t on his side. A scar began on his forehead and ran under his mask, the edges ragged and the scar tissue tough to the touch, like he hadn’t taken very good care of it during the healing process at all. Reaper wondered how far down the man’s face it ran, and he reached out to unclip the mask and visor before hesitating, hand hovering over the man’s face.

Reaper wore a mask partially for privacy, and partially to fit with the persona he had adopted as part of Talon. This man clearly had his own reasons for wearing a mask, maybe ones he would explain to Reaper when he woke up. It could be an olive branch between them, a way to make them both feel more comfortable around each other.

He drew his hand back and picked up the man instead, throwing him over one shoulder in a fireman’s carry as he picked up the heavy pulse rifle as well. They needed to move off the streets, to somewhere without the threat of prying eyes --

With a short curse, he realized he couldn’t take this man back to the Talon holes that littered Dorado. Every single one of them was monitored constantly by Sombra, and he couldn’t let her know that he had found the target but hadn’t neutralized him. 

Or maybe…

Reaper clicked on his communicator for the first time since Albuquerque. “Target sighted, but he escaped,” he said.

“Oh, you found him!” Sombra said, instantly responding. “I’ll tell Vialli. When are you --”

“Don’t contact me,” Reaper cut her off. “He had some information about the Recall that he let slip before he ran off. I’m going to find him again and look into it. Cut off all monitoring until I contact you otherwise -- I don’t want anything to be picked up accidentally.”

“Gotcha,” Sombra said. “Anything you want to pass on?”

“No. Reaper out,” he said, clicking the communicator off with a growl and powering the device completely down. He didn’t trust Sombra as far as he could throw her (and he could throw her pretty damn far, if he wanted to). He knew that even if she had shut down all of the official Talon monitors, she was still keeping tabs on him somehow. 

Which meant it was time to return to some old Blackwatch hideouts. Places Reaper had sworn he would never again use.

The man over his shoulder moved slightly, murmuring quietly. Reaper jostled him back into place. Time to get going.

***

The soldier woke up with a pounding headache and the itchy feeling of dried blood under his nose. Opening his eyes, he winced as light filtered through the visor and-- oh. He still had the mask on. That explained the tinny sound of his own breathing in his ears. 

As awareness came back in fits and starts, the soldier realized he was lying on a bed in a darkened room, shadows climbing up the bare walls around him. His arms and legs were both bound with reinforced steel cuffs, though they were padded to prevent injury. He could hear movement from another room. Right. Images came back to him, of a bone-white mask leering at him from the middle of a dark maelstrom, a man forming and disappearing into clouds of smoke and avoiding every shot the soldier took at him.

“Fuck,” he said quietly, testing the strength of the cuffs. They held him, surprisingly enough.

“You’re awake,” came a voice, and the soldier looked at the doorway at the other end of the room. The same bone-white mask stared back him, the man wearing it leaning casually against the doorframe.

Reaper.

“Why haven’t you killed me yet?” the soldier asked quietly. He’d heard of the Reaper, reading through some of the Talon missives he’d collected from Deadlock. A feared mercenary who did Talon’s dirty work. Well. The _dirtier_ work.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Reaper said. “Like I said. I just want to talk.”

“About what,” the soldier spat, trying to inject as much venom into his voice as possible. “What could you possibly want to talk to me about?”

“Deadlock,” Reaper said. The soldier quieted immediately. “You’re good, but Talon has eyes everywhere, and they got one tiny picture of you before they sent me. And you’re lucky it was me.”

The soldier rolled his eyes behind his mask. “So, you just want to talk and you’re not going to kill me,” he said. “When does the torture start?”

He got the sense that Reaper rolled his eyes behind his mask. “It doesn’t,” he responded. “Because I’ve got the feeling that you and I have some similar goals, and I want to see if you’re interested in working with me.”

“Shut up,” the soldier growled. “You and I have nothing in common. I’m trying to _kill you_ , don’t you get that?”

“Yeah, that’s going really well for you so far, isn’t it,” Reaper said, looking pointedly at the restraints holding the soldier to the bed. “Anyway, if you’ll shut up and listen, maybe you’ll realize I know what I’m talking about.” He looked at the pulse rifle, which was leaning against the opposite wall. “You got that from a decommissioned Overwatch facility. _And_ you took out Deadlock. So I don’t think I’m too off the mark when I surmise you’re connected to Overwatch somehow.”

The soldier was silent, but refused to look at Reaper.

“And now you’re here in Dorado, where Los Muertos have a chokehold on this city and the drugs and arms trade with Central America, heavily funded by Talon.” Reaper crossed his arms. “It’s pretty obvious. You’re looking for answers. Probably want revenge. Well,” he said, staring down at the soldier. “I do too.”

The soldier looked up at Reaper sharply, grateful that the mask and visor hid his surprise. “So that’s why you joined Talon?” he sneered. “For _revenge_? Yeah, doing their dirty work for them seems to be working out for you really well. They’re only getting stronger.”

Reaper growled and surged forward, suddenly looming over the soldier, that owl skull mask so close to his face and radiating cold anger. “I _had_ to join them,” he said, spitting the words in the soldier’s face. “It was the only way I could get any actual information, could get any leverage. Talon took _everything_ from me. So you can either work with me and get whatever revenge you’re seeking as well, or you can stay out of my goddamn way while I burn them to the ground from the inside out.”

Silence rang between them as Reaper’s words faded from the air, leaving angry echoes in their wake. The soldier shifted uncomfortably on the bed, pulling slightly at the restraints.

“Alright,” he said, and glanced meaningfully at his bound wrist. “Let me go and we’ll talk. I won’t shoot you if you won’t shoot me.”

Reaper silently undid the restraints, and the soldier groaned as he sat up in bed, bruises from the fight making themselves known as he swung his feet to the floor. “I’ll go first,” he grunted, rubbing at one of his wrists. “Mostly because I don’t know much. I’m basically just moving from place to place, trying to follow the clues to lead me to my next target. Taking out anything connected to Talon, that sort of thing. I was able to access some Overwatch mission logs and debriefs which led me to Deadlock, and then Deadlock led me here. So. Now you know what I know.” He pointedly left out what he knew about Strike Commander Morrison, just in case Reaper was planning on shooting him as soon as he had all the information. 

“That’s it?” Reaper asked, a little incredulous. “You’ve managed to avoid detection just by laying low and striking wherever you can?”

The soldier shrugged. “I’m just a soldier,” he said. “Just trying to get the job done. Your turn.”

Reaper made a disgruntled noise but nodded. “Fine,” he said, leaning back against the wall again. The dark shadows in the crevices of the bone mask seemed to shift and seethe before settling again. “By the fall of Overwatch, Talon had infiltrated various parts of the organization fairly deeply. I -- the commanders were pretty dysfunctional by that point, everyone was on edge, a lot of mistakes were being made by a lot of different people and everything was going to shit.” He sighed, his broad shoulders falling slightly. “Talon had already proved they could get inside Overwatch and fuck things up. But no one realized just _how_ deeply they could insinuate themselves among our ranks. A lot of good people died because Talon knew Overwatch like the back of their hand.” 

“Like at the Swiss base explosion,” the soldier said. 

Reaper nodded. “Yeah, and a couple of incidents before that and since.” He tilted his head, looking at soldier. “Both the commanders died during that explosion, and Overwatch was formally disbanded.”

“I know all this,” the soldier growled. “I’m on the run, not stupid.”

“You could be both,” Reaper said dismissively, ignoring how the soldier bristled. “Anyway, I realized that if you can’t beat them, join them, and cripple them from the inside. So that’s what I’ve been trying to do: Figure out exactly who is responsible and burn it all down around them.”

The soldier was quiet for a moment. “Who were you, in Overwatch?” he finally asked. “Who were you that the fall took everything from you and you’ve joined the enemy to bring them down from the inside? Overwatch must have been important to you.”

Reaper looked away, and the soldier could practically see the walls coming up. “Doesn’t matter. The person I was is dead. I’m just Reaper now.” He paused. “What about you?” he asked, looking at the soldier again. “What’s your name?”

The soldier shrugged uncomfortably, getting up from the bed with a short groan as the aches and pains from the fight made themselves known again. “Doesn’t matter,” he echoed Reaper’s words back to him. “Like I said, I’m just a soldier.”

“So we’re a couple of cagey bastards, got it,” Reaper huffed. “Well, I suppose it’ll make things easier in the long run if we keep everything under wraps.”

“Sure,” the soldier grunted. “Where are we?”

He heard Reaper sigh in exasperation. “Did you grow up in a barn?” he asked. “Never learn any manners?”

“You going to answer my question or are you going to make me shoot you?” the soldier growled, but Reaper only barked a laugh.

“Yeah, because that went so well for you last time. I promised I wasn’t going to kill you, but if you try anything absolutely idiotic I _will_ knock you out again,” he said, before shifting on his feet and crossing his arms. “We’re in an old Blackwatch safehouse,” he finally revealed, clearly hesitant. 

“Talon doesn’t know about this place?” the soldier said, surprised.

Reaper shook his head. “No. Or if they do know, then we’re both fucked anyway, so you might as well relax and rest up. I’m assuming you’re still interested in taking out Los Muertos.”

The soldier nodded, but didn’t say anything.

Reaper flipped him a small data card. “That’s a map of their hideout. They’re a...rowdy bunch,” he said distastefully. “Dirty, too. Lots of things to set on fire.”

The soldier turned the data card over in his fingers a few times. “Not going to help me take them down?” he asked, still looking at the card.

“If I’m spotted by someone who survives, then I’ll lose my connections with Talon,” Reaper growled. “That’s way more valuable than shooting some drug runners. I’ll give you as much information as I can, but it’s too dangerous for me to actually help you blow shit up.”

“Fine. Just stay out of my way.”

“With pleasure,” Reaper said, exiting the room. 

The soldier turned the data card around in his fingers a few more times before pulling out his pad and loading it up. He studied the plans carefully, committing the rabbit warren-like base to memory. If it was legit, this map made figuring out where the electrical grid was a hell of a lot easier.

He hoped it was legit. He wouldn’t be surprised if this was just a long con by Reaper to get him killed. Maybe everything Reaper had just told him was a carefully constructed lie.

Well. If that was the case, Reaper would have just killed him in the alley. So maybe there was some truth to this whole thing.

With a snort to himself at how trusting he was being, the soldier shut off the pad and grabbed the pulse rifle from where it leaned against the wall. The back of his head throbbed and ached from Reaper’s blows earlier, and he hissed as he brought a hand up to gingerly touch the tender bump that had formed on his skull.

“You couldn’t have hit me a little easier?” he asked, and he heard a bark of laughter from another room somewhere.

“Your head’s too hard, old man,” Reaper responded. “I had to hit you twice, or don’t you remember?”

The soldier stiffened, had to force himself to relax. _He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t need to know, _he reminded himself. _Hell, I barely know myself._ He stifled a short laugh, though it came out as a strange muffled choking sound through his mask.__

__“Should you be doing this right now?” Reaper asked. “I did hit you pretty fucking hard before. Maybe you should take it easy.”_ _

__The soldier shook his head and immediately regretted it. “I’m fine,” he lied, gritting his teeth against the liquid pain that sloshed around his brain. “Need to take out Los Muertos as quickly as possible, before they realize I’m here.”_ _

__Reaper shrugged and turned away. “Whatever you say.” He waved one hand dismissively. “Meet me here when you’re done.”_ _

__***_ _

__Infiltrating the Los Muertos base was only slightly more difficult than Deadlock, though they had a similar set up: A smaller drug-running and weapons-smuggling operation in the front, with a hidden area blocked off by a much more sophisticated security system hiding their Talon connections. There were many more gang members guarding the place than Deadlock, and the soldier wondered if Los Muertos had heard about what happened further north. They must have; they all had large guns with them, standing mostly at the ready, though a few of the guards had left their posts to talk with friends, standing in groups around the perimeter of the base._ _

__Not that their presence mattered. With Reaper’s map firmly planted in his mind, the soldier easily found an unguarded, hidden side entrance that had been marked as an entrance to the sub-basement. He easily snapped the rusty lock off, pushing the door open as quickly as he could to minimize the squeal of the hinges in the dark night air._ _

__The inside of the base was quiet as well. Every gang member he saw was carrying a gun of some sort, tension permeating the air, as though the whole base was holding its breath. Fortunately, the base also had a pretty large and extensive network of air ducts, big enough for a grown man with a large gun on his back to crawl through relatively easily. The soldier hauled himself up into the ceiling and began crawling, looking through air vents every once in a while to make sure he was going in the right direction._ _

__If Los Muertos had been warned, then that meant the access to the electrical grid was most likely blocked off. He’d need to think of somewhere else to plant the charges._ _

__He crawled over another vent, glanced down to check on his location, and stopped short suddenly. Well, that was convenient._ _

__Looked like Los Muertos was trying to expand their weapons-smuggling operation to include some more heavy duty stuff, including explosives. Noting the room’s location in his mental map, the soldier kept crawling on._ _

__Finding a computer, the soldier downloaded the information he needed onto a thumb drive he’d brought. The file transfer was fast, and the soldier tucked the drive away before pulling out several explosives and sticking one to the wall. Then he started running._ _

__It didn’t take long for the Los Muertos guards to notice him, but he was _fast_. Shots rang out behind him, bullets pinging off of the concrete at his feet as he ran, embedding themselves in the walls around him. The soldier dashed down hallways like he knew the place like the back of his hand, pausing just long enough to throw one of the makeshift bombs into the explosives room._ _

__He made it out just in time--the base erupted behind him, a barreling column of fire shooting out the main entrance to the base as the bombs exploded and triggered the Los Muertos explosives. The fire lit up the night sky with pale orange glow as the soldier disappeared back towards Dorado. He wanted to review this information soon._ _

__Rather than go straight back to Reaper’s safehouse, the soldier stopped by the pay-by-the-hour hostel he’d stored his stuff at. Loading the data transfer into another holopad (though this one was cracked), he began reading. Most of it looked like standard stuff: shipment information from Talon, lines of transfer, agreements to allow large amounts of drugs and weapons through the Los Muertos territory in exchange for a cut of the profit. LumériCo showed up fairly often, which was...a little strange. Los Muertos had been pretty vocal about their opposition to LumériCo when the hacks had occurred a few months back. But it looked like here they were actually working together? With Talon facilitating the relationship… This was definitely something to look into further, though the soldier had little interest for corporate espionage._ _

__After scrolling through seemingly endless invoices (what self-respecting street gang whose members were covered in glow-in-the-dark tattoos kept meticulous invoices?), the soldier finally found something that looked immediately useful. Opening up the file, which was only labeled “BW Failed Missions,” the soldier realized it contained about two or three years worth of Blackwatch mission reports, most of them written by Commander Gabriel Reyes._ _

__Every single report detailed a failed mission. Every single mission ended in either civilian or Blackwatch deaths, destruction of property, known violations of sovereign sanctity… It was a package of clusterfucks that no one could have gotten themselves out of without a court martial at the least._ _

__The final document in the file was not a mission report, but what looked like a confidential memo or message between Strike Commander Morrison and someone named Antonio._ _

___M: O’D has all mission details. Please confirm objectives will be interrupted. Failures must be high-profile enough to make the news: Cannot have them internally covered up._ _ _

___A: Confirmed. Measures have been put in place to ensure failure. We will confirm for each mission we will interrupt so you can sign off on them._ _ _

__Corruption, collusion...what wasn’t Morrison involved in? The soldier grit his teeth, shutting down the pad and collecting his few other belongings. He wondered how much Reaper knew about this--he seemed so hellbent on avenging Overwatch, the soldier would bet good money he had no idea how his fearless leader had sold them all out under their very noses. And it seemed like this “O’D” person was one of the go-betweens for Morrison and Talon. He wondered if they were still alive; Morrison may have been dead, but one more dead traitor never hurt anybody._ _

__By the time the soldier made it back to the former Blackwatch safehouse, the city of Dorado was filled with whooping sirens and flashing lights as fire trucks and police officers rushed to quell the burning inferno of the Los Muertos base and arrest any remaining gang members. His duffle bag slung over his shoulder, the soldier rubbed the smooth metal of 24’s ring in his pocket. He’d keep it on his person from now on, he decided, slipping into the safehouse from the street. The inside was dark and quiet._ _

__“I’m assuming the mission was a success, and that you didn’t just blow shit up and run away without getting any information,” Reaper said, appearing from the shadows behind the soldier, who jumped slightly. He was still wearing the owl skull mask, the creeping beginnings of dawn lighting the edges and making the hollow spaces seem even darker._ _

__“Don’t do that!” the soldier growled, heart suddenly beating ninety miles per hour inside his chest. The leftover adrenaline was beginning to fade already, leaving him a little shaky. “Yeah, I got some info. Linking LumériCo to Talon.”_ _

__Reaper cocked his head in mild surprise. His hood was down, the soldier realized with some surprise, revealing the masks of his straps and a close-shaved head. There were some scars on the back of Reaper’s powerful neck, one or two running down into the collar of his shirt and down his muscular back. “Interesting,” he said. “There’s… been a few run-ins with LumériCo recently. They’ve had some shady business practices, from what I understand. And I know that Los Muertos doesn’t support them…” He trailed off into silence for a moment. “Talon has several financially-motivated members in the ranks, so I can see how a partnership with LumériCo might prove to be beneficial. But I’m not sure how pitting Los Muertos against LumériCo has any benefits.”_ _

__The soldier hummed in acknowledgment, mind racing. “I don’t know much about LumériCo,” he said, voice thoughtful. “I did hear they’re interested in taking up land, building more energy pyramids across Mexico. Maybe it’s a fake feud to prevent people from digging any deeper and finding Talon?”_ _

__“As good a guess as any, I suppose,” Reaper said. “Anything else?”_ _

__The soldier thought about Jack Morrison and hesitated for a half second, thinking about Morrison and O’D. Anger boiled through his veins, scorching out any attempt at reason. “No. That was it. Well, some other locations too, but I figured you’re a more reliable source for those.” He fought to keep his voice even, but Reaper didn’t seem to notice._ _

__“Fair enough.” Reaper turned away from the soldier. “I’d suggest laying low here for a few nights at least, maybe a week. I told Talon that I’d found you, but you escaped, so they’ll know that you gained access to the Los Muertos files. They won’t be happy, especially not with me.”_ _

__He walked further back into the safehouse, pulling some medical supplies from a hidden wall cabinet. The soldier couldn’t take his eyes off him. There was something so...compelling about Reaper. Almost familiar. But not too familiar. But not too not familiar. “Also, you may or may not have a concussion, so taking a short break is probably a good idea.”_ _

__“What about you?” the soldier asked, taking the proffered supplies before looking down at them. “These are expired,” he said flatly, shaking the half-empty bottle of pills he held._ _

__“Oops,” Reaper said, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m going to lay low, too. You’ll have to tell me where you’re going, and I’ll try to make sure Talon steers clear. I’ll feed you information as I get it, but they think I’m looking for you, so they can’t see me helping you either. But I’ll do my best.”_ _

__“Makes sense,” the soldier said. “Thank you. For your help. You must really want revenge to jeopardize your connection to Talon like this.”_ _

__Reaper turned away from him but didn’t move at first. “Like I said,” he murmured, voice low. “Talon took everything from me. What happened… no one in Overwatch deserved it. I can’t get any of it back, but I can make them pay for it.”_ _

__The soldier nodded and looked down at the old meds in his hand. Reaper was walking into another room of the safehouse. “Did you know Jack Morrison?” he blurted, before wincing slightly. Maybe he _did_ have a concussion._ _

__Reaper stopped and looked at him sharply, and the soldier got the sense that if he could see Reaper’s eyes, they would be narrowed in suspicion. “I...yes,” he admitted._ _

__“Was he as much of a piece of shit as he looks like he was?” the soldier asked, bitterness suddenly spilling from his lips. He sneered, knowing Reaper couldn’t see his expression, hidden as he was behind his own mask and visor. “An arrogant man who loved the spotlight too much to ever give it up, held onto power like a despotic king?”_ _

__“What the fuck are you talking about,” Reaper hissed. He seemed to flow through the air in a second, suddenly right in the soldier’s face, that bone white mask inches from his own._ _

__The soldier shrugged, feeling like there was nothing but venom flowing through his veins, icy cold anger wrapping like tendrils around his heart and squeezing too tight to feel anything. “You said no one in Overwatch deserved what happened to them. Maybe that’s true. But Morrison did nothing to even attempt to stop it.”_ _

__A strong, claw-tipped hand curled into the fabric of the soldier’s jacket and he was pushed roughly back against the wall, his head hitting it painfully. The soldier hissed in pain, but Reaper ignored him._ _

__“You have no idea what you’re saying,” Reaper said, his voice cold and dangerous. The soldier shuddered involuntarily, transfixed by the swirling darkness in the hollow eyes of Reaper’s mask. He could _just_ make out twin pinpricks of light, the shine of eyes deep in that blackness, but nothing else. “Jack Morrison was a hero, and he died to protect Overwatch to the very end. If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll tear this mask off your face, rip your tongue out of your skull, and go back to figuring shit out on my own.”_ _

__“Hit a nerve, huh,” the soldier laughed hoarsely. “Fine. Whatever. Let me go, you fucking asshole.”_ _

__Reaper growled but released him. “Contact me when you decide where you’re going next,” he said, turning away. He dropped a slim, boxy phone on a table near the entrance to the safehouse._ _

__“Where are you going?” the soldier asked, gingerly rubbing the back of his head._ _

__“Away from you.” Reaper opened the door and dissolved into smoke on the wind, leaving the soldier behind._ _


	4. Chateau Guillard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Art for this chapter by [Shana](https://shanablackrx.tumblr.com) is coming a little bit later!!! So check back soon!!!!)

_He opens his eyes to soft morning light filtering through the window across from their bed. It must be just after dawn, and he can hear the faint song of birds in the distance._

_There’s an arm slung over his waist, he realizes, heavy and warm and muscular, holding him securely. “You woke me up,” comes a groggy, garbled voice from behind him._

_A small, helpless smile splits across his own face. “Sorry,” he says with a small laugh. “The light woke me up. We forgot to close the curtains last night.”_

_“Well, go back to sleep,” the voice says, and he can tell it’s grumpy, though he can’t figure out who the voice is. The name is just on the tip of his tongue--_

_“Stop thinking so hard,” the voice says again. “You’re keeping me awake.” The warm arm around him shifts, the hand coming up to stroke against his chest once, twice, before resettling with a comforting squeeze._

_He laughs again. _He_ was always a light sleeper, liked to complain at the slightest thing waking him up. “Sorry,” he repeats, shifting so he can turn towards his husband, look into his eyes before they both fall back asleep, and suddenly he can’t move, the light is fading away, the arm around him is a steel band clamping down, he can’t twist out of the hold, please, he just wants to see his husband one last time--_

The soldier woke to darkness, his hand reaching across the bed to an empty space he was sure had a body in it only a moment ago. But the sheets were empty and cool, covering nothing but a thin mattress on the floor of a condemned apartment, the room reeking of sweat and piss and blood.

He sighed and rolled onto his back, staring up at the paint flaking off the ceiling. Another dream. They weren’t constant, but they were… regular.

Shutting his eyes again, he sighed and tried to fall back asleep.

***

The soldier moved methodically: Colombia, Brazil, China, Myanmar. They were mostly satellite Talon bases, skeleton operations that allowed Talon to maintain their footholds across the world, create access lines to push their weapons, drugs, and human and omnic trafficking. Indonesia, Sri Lanka. In a few places, it wasn’t even Talon or an established affiliated gang doing the dirty work, but impoverished, desperate people who had nothing else. The soldier tried to only blow up places when that happened. He was more interested in breaking Talon than breaking the people they had in a chokehold.

Reaper appeared and disappeared on his own schedule, occasionally bringing a new burner phone to leave with the soldier. They discussed plans of attack, new information (there wasn’t much), how Talon was handling having portions of their operation disrupted (poorly, but there was apparently some organizational leadership strife occurring, so finding the soldier was not as high on the priority list).

They didn’t talk about Jack Morrison again, and slowly their attitudes towards each other thawed.

“There’s been a recall,” Reaper said, watching as the soldier carefully took off his shirt in a dimly-lit safehouse in Cape Town, South Africa. The shirt was partially shredded and soaked with blood. The soldier hadn’t been so lucky against bullets this time. Nothing serious at least, just a graze or two. “Of Overwatch. I managed to push the gorilla to do it.”

The soldier grunted in pain, carefully pulling the torn threads of the shirt from the sticky wound on his ribs. “How’d you do it without Talon finding out?” he ground out through gritted teeth, then, “there’s a gorilla?” His brow was furrowed overtop his mask.

Reaper passed a damp cloth to him, watching as the soldier passed it over the wound, wiping blood away. “Oh, Talon knows. They sent me to attack him. Winston, I mean. He’s the gorilla. I just…strategically failed the mission.” 

“Must not be happy with you.”

“They’re not. But there’s nothing they can do.”

The soldier grunted again, picking up some gauze and packing it on top of the bleeding wound. “You mind helping me with this,” he said, holding out a roll of bandages. Reaper nodded, moving closer and dissolving the claws of his gloves into smoke. He carefully measured out the dressing and taped it to the soldier’s body, noting the way hard muscle and bone shifted beneath his hands as he did so. The soldier seemed to be holding his breath as Reaper touched him.

He stepped back quickly when he finished, mouth a little dry. “You stink,” was all he could think to say.

“Sorry, haven’t really had a chance to shower between dismantling a global terrorist organization and running from bullets,” the soldier responded, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

“Learn anything new?” Reaper asked, internally wincing at how unsubtle his topic change was. Thankfully, with both of their faces covered, he couldn’t tell if the soldier was rolling his eyes or not, saving them both from awkwardness.

The soldier shook his head. “No, these bases have all been too small to have anything valuable.” He growled, frustrated. “I need to go…somewhere bigger. Closer to their heart.” He looked at Reaper, the red light of the visor glowing faintly in the gloom of the safehouse. “Tell me where to go.”

Reaper crossed his arms. “If you’re sure,” he said, looking away from the soldier.

“Yes,” the soldier said fervently, stepping towards Reaper again. “Tell me where to go. You’re my biggest asset on these missions, and I haven’t even been utilizing you properly. Please. You know you can trust me at this point, and I’m pretty sure I can trust you.” He sucked in a breath, looked down at the fresh white bandage on his skin. “Tell me,” he said quietly.

“France,” Reaper said, voice equally as quiet. “Talon has been consolidating power there for a while now. It’s not their biggest base, as far as I can tell, but there will definitely be important information there. Information not even I’ve been able to access.”

The soldier nodded. “I’ll go to Morocco first,” he said. “I’ve heard a few things about a fine art thieving ring in Marrakech that I think might have connections to Talon. Then I’ll go to France.”

“Fine,” Reaper growled. “I don’t know anything about this art ring, but I can try to look into it for you.”

“Anything about France you can tell me right now?”

Reaper hesitated. “Do you know who Amélie Lacroix is?”

“No. Should I?”

“I guess not. She doesn’t go by that name, anyway. She’s called Widowmaker, instead. One of the best snipers I’ve ever met.”

The soldier snorted. “A sniper named Widowmaker. Talon sure is original.”

“This isn’t a laughing matter!” Reaper insisted. “She’s incredibly dangerous. Killed her husband before she joined Talon. If she’s able to line up a shot on you, you’ll be dead before you know it.”

“And what’s she got to do with France?”

“She’s French, dumbass. And the Talon base is her former estate. It’ll be teeming with guards, and with her more likely than not.”

The soldier shrugged. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he said. “And I’m assuming you won’t be showing up to help at all?”

“I won’t be too far away,” Reaper said, surprising the soldier. Normally Reaper tried to be on the opposite side of the world from these missions as part of his plan to maintain his good status with Talon. “There’s a big meeting in Venice a few days beforehand, so I’ll be on the same continent, at least.”

The soldier raised an eyebrow, though he knew Reaper couldn’t see much from behind his mask. “Big meeting?” he repeated, curious.

With a slight sigh, Reaper nodded in affirmation. “You… may have heard about Doomfist breaking out of prison recently? He’s called a meeting to discuss the direction Talon is currently taking. That’s why we’ll be in Venice.”

The soldier chuckled humorlessly. “Time for the annual shareholders’ meeting, huh?” he said.

“You aren’t too far off,” Reaper grumbled. “Any Councilmember can call a meeting, though we’ve fallen into a bit of an annual schedule. This year’s meeting should be… interesting, with Doomfist back.”

“How’d he get out?” the soldier asked. “I don’t know much about him, but I’m assuming with a name like Doomfist he’s a force to be reckoned with. What, did he punch his way out of prison?”

Reaper visibly hesitated before sighing. “Long story short, yes. He pretty much punched his way out. But I also helped release him, kept the authorities from trying to stop him.”

“ _You_ let Doomfist out?” the soldier asked, bewildered. “Doesn’t that make our goal of taking down Talon even more difficult?”

“Technically yes,” Reaper sighed. “But it also introduces some internal strife into Talon. You’re a hot button issue among the Councilmembers again. I’m trying to keep you under their radar, distract them a bit so you can lay low.”

“My knight in shining armor,” the soldier drawled. “Whose face I’ll never see.”

“I haven’t seen your face either,” Reaper pointed out.

“It’s a precautionary measure. I’m too beautiful. My brilliance would blind you permanently.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, someday,” Reaper said. The soldier lifted a hand to take off his mask, and Reaper shook his head fiercely. “No, no, not right now! I still need that plausible deniability with Talon.”

“You’re the boss,” the soldier said, the words sending a frisson of delight down his spine to pool in his stomach. He saw Reaper’s shoulders stiffen before forcibly relaxing.

“And don’t you forget it.”

***

_He’s sweating, the sheets around him pulled off the corners of the bed as he grips them tightly in his fists, each thrust inching him closer and closer to the headboard. His cock is hanging heavy and thick between his legs, neglected, but he knows he’s close, just needs one hand, a brief touch--_

_“No,” says a voice behind him, and its thick with arousal, but firm. Stern. “Hands behind your back.” They’re familiar words, but they sound new every time he hears them._

_He whines but complies, trusts this man with all his heart, the hand that was reaching towards his cock grasping his other wrist so that they’re locked together. He’s balancing on his shoulders now, chest pressed to the bed and head turned to the side, the breath punched out of him with every inward stroke. It’s so good, he’s being fucked so hard, and the man behind him is crooning praise into the air between them, takes his crossed wrists with one hand and uses his other hand to pull him back even harder onto his cock._

_He cries out at the sudden intensity, the head of his partner’s cock sliding just shy of his prostate, and he realizes he’s begging, just a steady stream of nonsense and “please, fuck, oh god, please” and his partner’s name, over and over again. But the name is, once again, garbled._

_There’s an arm around his chest now, grasping a generous handful of one of his pecs and squeezing, thumb flicking lightly against the nipple, knows just how much pressure to apply to drive him crazy. He writhes, hands free once again, and pushes himself up on the bed, up onto his knees, sitting back on his partner’s cock with a moan as he takes it even deeper than before, his partner’s hands going to steady him at the waist, strong and secure. He lets his head loll back, eyes shut, against his partner’s shoulder._

_He wants -- no, _needs_ \-- to kiss him suddenly, to feel those lips against his, share even more intimacy during this moment. His partner’s cock is striking his prostate on nearly every thrust now, and his cock is leaking, beads of precum sliding down the shaft erratically has his hips move up and down with abandon._

_“I wanna kiss you,” he says, gasping._

_“So kiss me,” the voice says._

_Eyes still closed, he leans towards his partner’s face. He knows it so well, knows exactly where his mouth will be, how those slightly chapped lips will feel against his, knows how he’ll coax him open with his tongue--_

_His lips meet something hard and cold rather than soft, warm skin. Opening his eyes, he sees Reaper’s bone-white mask next to his face, his lips pressed against the surface. The hands around his waist suddenly have clawed metal tips sinking their points into his flesh. Reaper keeps thrusting, in and in and in, and it feels so good, his orgasm is just under the surface, roiling through him._

And then the soldier woke up, disoriented, cock stiff and leaking in his pants. One hand crept into his pants, rough palm grasping his cock with a sharp inhale. Fuck, it felt so good, and he closed his eyes, stroking himself hard and fast, trying to remember how it felt to be held and fucked like that, so hard but so tenderly at the same time. He squeezed his hand around the head, mouth open as he panted into the darkness of the room. He was almost there-- just a few more strokes--

Reaper’s mask flashed in his mind, Reaper’s voice whispering in his ear, and the soldier came with a bitten-off cry, hot wetness splashing onto his fingers and bare stomach. He stroked himself through the orgasm, feeling it shiver through his toes, pulling one, two more times before he was too oversensitive to keep going.

What was _that_?

***

The art theft ring in Morocco didn’t turn up much, other than confirming that the Lacroix estate in France was a new hotspot for Talon activity. The soldier sat in an abandoned barn several kilometers from the outskirts of Annecy, breathing in the smell of long-moldering hay and dust as he carefully checked over his rifle, ensuring each piece was clean and functioning properly. 

He had set up camp here for the past several days, waiting for Reaper’s signal to infiltrate the mansion. The green grass filled with wildflowers and the Alps rising in the distance made it a very picturesque hiding place, but the soldier was getting impatient.

“Fuck it,” he growled during the fourth night. The moon was hidden behind clouds tonight, casting the alpine valley into darkness, and the soldier’s camping light was beginning to weaken after so much use with no chance to recharge. And Reaper _still_ hadn’t contacted him.

“Fuck it,” he growled again, standing up abruptly and clicking his mask and visor into place. He couldn’t wait around forever. If Reaper wouldn’t -- or _couldn’t_ \-- contact him, then he was going to have to take things into his own hands. And didn’t that though send a slight pang through the soldier’s chest: what if Reaper was incapacitated? He’d never know.

For all the man’s recalcitrance and anger that he harbored deep inside, the soldier had become… _attached_ to Reaper. He admired the fluid grace with which Reaper moved, the way he could tell his gaze was sharp and analytical beneath that pale mask, the sheer devotion he had towards his cause--

_Their_ cause, the soldier reminded himself, shaking his head slightly. Right. He needed to concentrate on the mission, not on Reaper right now.

Picking up the latest burner phone the two of them were using to communicate, the soldier sent a terse message to Reaper: _Heading out. Can’t wait any longer. _He tossed the phone onto a blanket that covered a moldering pile of hay and picked up his rifle.__

__Partway up the foothills of the Alps, the soldier could see the lights of Annecy shining off in the far distance, brighter than usual in the moonless, starless night. There were a few other pockets of light strewn about around it, smaller towns and villages that seemed to get further and further apart as they radiated outward from Annecy. The lights acted as his guide as the soldier began to make the relatively short trek toward Chateau Guillard, his rifle swung across his back._ _

__Every time he went on one of these missions, he hoped he’d get to use it._ _

__The trek to the estate didn’t take too long as the soldier listened closely for the sound of water lapping at the shore as he approached. He made sure to move slowly, letting the edges of his silhouette bleed into the covering darkness. Armed Talon guards patrolled the high walls of the mansion over the dark water of the lake, mid-sized spotlights sweeping across the glassy surface periodically. A long, wide bridge connected the house with the mainland, guards stationed along it._ _

__It was an incredibly defensible position. For once, Talon seemed to be making a smart decision with its bases, the soldier thought. There was no way he’d be able to cross the bridge without being caught and gunned down. Swimming was a possibility, but any too-loud splash and he was also dead._ _

__He needed a distraction. The smoke grenades he’d taken from the corpses of the human traffickers on the border of Vietnam and China would do. They’d go off with a sharp bang and create a thick smog that would be next to impossible to see through. The soldier hoped it would be enough._ _

__With a slight grunt, he heaved a smoke grenade toward the house, watching as the baseball-sized object sailed through the air and landed with a small _clink_ just inside the stone walls. It immediately exploded with a flash of light and a small explosive pop. Shouting immediately came from inside the house, and the guards on the bridge looked at each other before racing back to the house to assume a more defensible position._ _

__That worked._ _

__Staying low to the ground and relying on the still-heavy darkness, the soldier quickly moved forward, sticking to the stone walls that jutted up on either side of the bridge. More confused shouting was coming from inside the house as the Talon guards tried to find the source of the thick smoke that was now pouring from the grenade. As the soldier reached the end of the bridge, he leapt onto the rocky perimeter wall, finding enough handholds to swiftly climb up and avoid being seen by anyone._ _

__Infiltration complete. Time to move on to stage two._ _

__Moving silently through the well-manicured lawns and gardens and courtyards outside of the mansion, the soldier searched for a way into the house. Spotting an open second-story window, the soldier ran up the wall in a few bounds, hauling himself through the opening and into an opulently decorated but dusty room. White sheets covered most of the furniture, but the few pieces that were uncovered were beautiful, solidly made pieces of oak caked in grey dust. The soldier gave a low whistle in his mind. Whoever this Widowmaker was, she was incredibly well-connected._ _

__The soldier moved silently through the house, straining his senses for any sign of a guard about to find him. The shouting outside had more or less calmed down as the smoke blew off into the wind, but at any moment--_ _

__Blinking red emergency lights flooded the hallway, and a droning alarm sounded._ _

__There it was._ _

__It would have been disorienting for anyone else, but the soldier thrived in this type of environment, his focus narrowing to a laser point as he moved, quickly but quietly, through the old house. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, but he figured any computer would be a good start; Reaper had given him data key that would allow him to quickly bypass any Talon security and access the data on the laptop itself._ _

__(“Talon takes its security a little more seriously than it’s affiliated gangs might,” he’d said as he’d given the soldier the key. “Although everyone is starting to step their game up now, since you’ve been running around.”)_ _

__There had to be an office around here somewhere, he figured. Even though this mansion looked to be hundreds of years old, Talon wouldn’t go somewhere that they couldn’t wire up._ _

__The red lights continued flashing as he moved, the alarm drowning out any noise he might’ve made. However, it meant his own hearing was impaired, and he tried to listen for the low thud of footsteps under the sound. Staircases littered the house like there was no rhyme or reason to their placement, the dark grey stone imposing but dusty. Like no one had lived here in a long time._ _

__Rounding a corner, the soldier finally found a computer sitting on a large, intricately carved oak desk in what was clearly the estate’s library. The books seemed to be the only things that were well-cared for in the house, stacked neatly into rows on freshly-cleaned bookshelves that stretched from floor to the high ceilings. A plush carpet covered the floor. The computer on the desk was hibernating, the slow blinking light on top of it calling to the soldier._ _

__He crossed to the desk and woke the computer up, waiting for the screen to light up and ask for a password before inserting the data key into the drive. The screen flashed purple a few times and then showed him the desktop, a data terminal in the corner scrolling through code at a lightning-quick pace. With a frown, the soldier began searching through data files._ _

__A file titled “SC Morrison - Correspondence” caught his eye. Disbelief swept like a hot flash through the soldier’s body as he opened it up and began reading, followed quickly by a freezing numbness._ _

__This was...this was beyond excusable._ _

___18:47 09/21/20XX [ENCRYPTED] FROM: J.Morrison  
SUBJ: A.L. Project_ _ _

___Message received regarding subject. Will look into options._ _ _

___03:21 09/22/20XX [ENCRYPTED] FROM: J.Morrison  
Re: A.L. Project_ _ _

___Subject has innate sniping ability -- her husband was very proud to tell me this. Not sure if you can do something with this?_ _ _

___07:43 09/22/20XX [ENCRYPTED] FROM: S.Korpal  
Re: Re: A.L. Project_ _ _

___Good to know. Definitely useful. BW disgrace is still easiest option at the moment to get G.L. out of the way. Any status updates?_ _ _

___02:12 09/23/20XX [ENCRYPTED] FROM: J.Morrison  
Re: Re: Re: A.L. Project_ _ _

___Think R is suspicious. BW has done a couple of unauthorized missions that have succeeded, so I can’t say anything publicly. O’D has been doing her best to make sure they fail, but she can’t quite do magic yet. I think this is a good alternate._ _ _

___02:45 09/23/20XX [ENCRYPTED] FROM: S.Korpal  
Re: Re: Re: Re: A.L. Project_ _ _

___We’ll have to watch out for R in the future. For now, please send all known locations and times for target for the next two weeks._ _ _

__What followed were several more logistical emails providing some surprisingly in-depth details about the weekly routine of the target. And then--_ _

___10:53 10/04/20XX [ENCRYPTED] FROM: J.Morrison  
SUBJ: Press Release_ _ _

__The only attachment was an official press release about the disappearance of Amélie Lacroix. “Foul play suspected,” it said. “There have been no demands made in exchange for her return. Mrs. Lacroix is the wife of Gerard Lacroix, an Overwatch agent. Overwatch has promised to do everything in its power to locate her and bring her home.”_ _

__The next few missives weren’t emails, but several status reports regarding Amélie Lacroix, spanning the course of a month._ _

___Subject remains closed off to reconditioning process. More stringent measures may need to be applied…”_ _ _

___“...Subject responding positively to electroshock combined with sleep deprivation.”_ _ _

___“Subject no longer responds to her name, does not react to sudden stimuli near face or body. Reprogramming slated to begin tomorrow, as long as subject is physically strong enough…”_ _ _

___“Breathing and heartbeat have slowed considerably, but still maintain life. Subject responds to orders well. Releasing her tomorrow.”_ _ _

__And then, a final status report, a month after the last one: _Subject returned. Objective achieved, G.L. eliminated. Subject’s skin is now blue due to lowered oxygen levels; allows subject to maintain focus. Will continue training…__ _

__The soldier felt bile rise in his throat as the pieces of the story clicked in his head. _God_ , this was… this was worse than he ever could have dreamed, honestly. It was pretty obvious that former Strike Commander Jack Morrison was the reason Overwatch fell; the man had been the very definition of a corrupt, colluding leader, giving information freely to people who thrived off of pain and suffering, as long as he made money. But to willingly give up someone who was only tangentially connected to Overwatch, to condemn her to torture, to brainwashing, to a complete decimation of who she was as a person, to a lifetime of nothing but death and numbness…_ _

__The soldier wanted nothing more in that moment than to snap Jack Morrison’s neck and smile as he watched the life drain from his eyes._ _

__Swallowing against the rage that threatened to overwhelm him, the soldier reminded himself that Morrison was already dead, so at least there were some small miracles left in the world. Refocusing on the task at hand, he quickly downloaded everything onto an external hard drive, yanking out the datakey as he finished._ _

__“Hands up,” came a modulated voice from the doorway._ _


	5. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh only one more to go!!!! Thank you to everyone who has been leaving me such wonderful comments -- I love you all so much!!!!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this chapter!

Freezing, the soldier turned around slowly. A squad of Talon guards pointed their guns at him from the hallway outside the office, their faces covered by their helmets, the red lights on them glowing dully in the dark. “Hands up and put the drive on the desk,” the voice said again, appearing to come from the guard at the front.

Well, the soldier thought, he could either die with his hands up or he could die with a gun in his hand. Because he _knew_ they weren’t going to let him out of here alive, even if he complied with their request. He made up his mind.

“No,” he grunted, grabbing his rifle lightning-quick and spraying bullets across the doorway, leaping over the heavy oak desk as he did. Shots hit the bookshelves on either side of the door, splinters of wood exploding into the air like shrapnel as he rolled towards the window at the far side of the room, open to the cool night air. 

He never got there. Talon opened fire almost immediately, swarming the room. One of them pointed a strange, three-pronged gun at the window and it immediately filled with hard light, sealing off the outside. Shredded pieces of paper floated in the air as the soldier cursed and rolled to his feet, turning back around to face the attackers. 

Too late. The first Talon guard to reach him used their own gun to slam his rifle out of his grasp before headbutting him. The soldier yelled as the Talon guard’s helmet slammed into his unprotected forehead, sending shooting pain through his head. Suddenly there were four Talon guards on him, punching him in the kidneys, kicking the backs of his knees, slamming their guns into his stomach. The soldier gasped for air, felt himself cough out blood into the confines of his mask. He couldn’t connect any punches, pain blossoming in his ribs as two of them forced him to his knees, holding an arm each behind his back at an angle that he knew, if he struggled at all, would dislocate his elbows and shoulders.

A gun pointed at his temple. “Someone call Vialli and tell him we’ve caught the pest,” the guard holding it said. The soldier could hear a slimy sort of pride in their tinny voice.

“There’s no answer,” another one of them said, confusion evident in their tone even through the strange helmet distortion. 

And then the shadow dropped from the ceiling, and the screaming began.

The soldier watched, slightly dazed, as Reaper appeared out of nowhere, his shotguns blazing as he blasted through the Talon guards, blood spraying across the walls and damaged bookshelves, soaking into books as he wreaked death upon the room. The guards barely had time to scream before they were mowed down, bodies left slumped over as they died, blood soaking into the plush carpet of the office.

Just as suddenly as it began, the assault stopped, and Reaper loomed over the soldier, breathing so hard his shoulders were shaking. The soldier looked up at him, a dark void in the middle of a dark room, and wheezed as the adrenaline slowly began to leave his body. Everything hurt, but Reaper was _here_ , Reaper had just risked his life and his position with Talon to save _him_ , Reaper had come for _him_.

“Thanks,” the soldier croaked, sputtering off into a choking cough as he spit more blood into his mask.

“We need to get out of here,” Reaper muttered, already hauling him to his feet. The soldier groaned at the pain in his shoulders as Reaper pulled on his arms, and suddenly found himself swept into Reaper’s arms, lifted from the ground as though he _wasn’t_ a fully grown man who spent his time running and shooting things. “Widowmaker could be here any moment.”

Widowmaker...there was something about Widowmaker that the soldier needed to remember. Something he needed to tell Reaper about, because he bet that Reaper had no idea… But his head was so fuzzy at that point, and Reaper’s arms were solid and strong beneath him, and his ribs hurt like a motherfucker--

“Hey,” Reaper snapped. “Stay awake! You probably have a concussion, you can’t sleep like this.”

“Safe house,” the soldier slurred, fighting to keep his eyes open behind his visor. “Biotic f-fields. Patch me right up.”

“Is the safe house where the phone is?” Reaper asked, crushing the hard light gun beneath his boot. The hard light barrier in the window disappeared.

The soldier hummed in agreement, suddenly feeling like his tongue was too big for his mouth to say anything.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Reaper muttered, tightening his grip on the soldier’s body. “This might feel weird. Don’t throw up.” And then they dissolved, shadows wreathing around them. It felt like fire licking up every cell of his body. It felt like jumping through a layer of ice and into the freezing water beneath, having the very breath stolen from your lungs as you plunge into the depths. 

And then they materialized in the dark, musty confines of the safe house, the smell of hay and dust filling his lungs as the soldier sucked in a deep breath against the sudden feeling of nausea that swept through him. It took a moment for the visor to adjust to the darkness, and the soldier flailed in Reaper’s arms, nearly hitting him in the face while Reaper cursed before dumping him on the pile of hay the soldier had laid his sleeping bag on top of.

“Where are the biotic fields?” Reaper asked. The soldier waved in the general direction of his duffle bag, taking deep breaths as the mask began filtering out the dust and mold particles out of the air, tamping down the nausea.

Golden light filled his vision as Reaper found one of the canisters and activated it, setting it down next to the soldier and letting the healing aura wash over him. Almost immediately, the splitting headache and fuzziness from the concussion began to fade away, the nausea going with it, and the soldier sighed, slumping against the wall as the aches and pains in his body lit up before disappearing.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, looking up at Reaper, who was standing just on the outside of the golden circle. The edges of his mask were lit with gold, and the soldier thought he had never looked more like the Angel of Death than in that moment.

Reaper crossed his arms and looked away, like he was uncomfortable with the soldier’s gratitude. “I was in the area,” he said, shifting on his feet. The toes of his boots touched the very edge of the golden circle, like he wanted to enter the perimeter but was stopping himself. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” the soldier said, shifting and stretching out each arm experimentally. He caught Reaper staring at him from the corner of his eye and stretched a little farther. “How was the meeting?”

“Fine. Vialli’s dead. Doomfist is making moves as the new de facto head of Talon. And he’s a lot more dangerous than Vialli ever was. We’re going to need to be extra careful from now on, especially since I just saved your dumb ass. I just hope no one noticed, otherwise I might not survive next month’s meeting out in Shanghai.”

The soldier hissed. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, and meant it. An uncomfortable silence settled between them. He could still feel Reaper’s gaze on him, focused and heated. “I need to check my ribs,” he said, reaching for the zipper on his jacket and slowly pulling it down. “Those assholes really did a number on me.” He shrugged off the jacket and began lifting his black compression shirt up, wincing at the sight of deep blue and black bruises already forming blotchy and huge across the skin of his stomach and ribs. “Come help me figure out if anything’s broken and needs more than the field,” he said.

Reaper crossed the threshold of golden light like a puppet with broken strings, his movements jerky and uncoordinated as he knelt next to where the soldier was sitting. He heard Reaper hiss at the sight of the bruises and watched, transfixed, as Reaper carefully removed his clawed gloves, laying them to the side. 

Reaper’s hands were...beautiful. Strong. Elegant. Calloused from holding his shotguns. And then they were on the soldier, carefully pressing against his ribs, feeling for painful spots. The soldier breathed shallowly, his heart beating furiously in his chest at the tender way Reaper touched him, like he _wanted_ to take care of him. Like the soldier was worth taking care of.

The hands traveled lower, and the soldier felt heat rising in his cheeks as he realized he was growing hard from the lightest of touches along his belly and over his hip bones, the tips of Reaper’s fingers not doing much more than skating over the surface of the soldier’s scarred abdomen. He sucked in a breath as his cock pulsed in his pants, getting harder and harder with every pass. Reaper’s mask was tilted down, watching his hand on the soldier’s body, and the soldier bit his lip inside his own mask, nearly drawing blood as he tried not to move, not bring attention to hardening dick.

But then Reaper looked up at him, and the soldier knew he was blushing bright red above his mask, couldn’t stop it. “Is everything okay?” Reaper asked, starting to get up from his kneeling position. And then the back of his hand brushed the top of the soldier’s pants, and he pushed up into the touch, an anguished groan tearing from his throat.

“Shit,” the soldier said, immediately realizing what he’d just done. “I’m so sorry, fuck. Just leave, I’ll be fine--”

“Shut up,” Reaper said. He pushed between the soldier’s thighs, one hand on each leg, thumbs massaging the inner thighs. The soldier strangled another moan in his throat before it could escape. “You want this?” Reaper asked, and the soldier nodded decisively.

“Yes,” he said, “please,” unzipping his pants all the way and pushing them and his underwear to just below his thighs. His cock was hardening against his leg, blood rushing into it as he stared up at the impassive face of Reaper’s mask. The dream flashed back to him and he shuddered slightly, wrapping a hand around his length and stroking. 

He could hear Reaper’s breathing, thick and heavy through his mask, like he’d just run a marathon, but he was just looking down at the soldier, watching as he touched himself. That thought sent another shudder down the soldier’s spine, and he arched his back, groaning at the stretch of his abused muscles. He was fully hard now, his cock hot and blood-heavy in his hand, and suddenly all he wanted -- all he _needed_ \-- was Reaper’s hand on him, those strong fingers wrapping around him, calloused palm stroking roughly up and down his shaft.

“Please,” he said again. “Please, touch me.”

Reaper seemed to shake off water like a dog, resurfacing as the soldier’s words hit him. “Yes,” he said, and that was all, one of his hands leaving the soldier’s legs as he stepped even closer, crowding up against the soldier and pressing him against the wooden wall of the barn. That beautiful hand reached between them, removed the soldier’s hand from around himself, and took its place, wrapping around his cock. 

The soldier groaned and lifted his head, closing his eyes tightly behind his visor. If he looked… god, he was so close already, and they’d only just started, _fuck_ , Reaper’s hand just felt so good, stroking him with short, rough strokes, the friction a little painful but so fucking _good_. 

He knew Reaper was watching him, the dark eyes of that mask taking in the image the soldier made hungrily. Suddenly, all the soldier could think about was seeing Reaper’s face, having those eyes on him, their gazes meeting directly for the first time as they saw each other, _knew_ each other--

The soldier pushed that desire down as deep as it could go. It was stupid; the danger of knowing the other’s face was obvious. So he asked for the next best thing.

“You, too,” he panted, struggling to get the words out and his point across. “Want to...want to see you, too.” A moan broke from his throat as Reaper twisted his hand just right across the head of his cock. “Please!”

Thankfully, Reaper seemed to get what he meant from his broken words, and he stepped back, quickly undoing several belts, what the fuck, before unzipping his pants and pulling out his own hard cock. The soldier sucked in a breath at the sight, watching as Reaper twisted his hand up and down the thick shaft once or twice before he stepped back between the soldier’s legs, trying to line their cocks up. 

The position was...awkward, and Reaper huffed in annoyance at the odd angle he was forced to stand at. “Just get down here,” the soldier said, reaching up towards Reaper’s shoulders and pulling him down by his jacket. They shifted around until the soldier was laying back on the sleeping bag, Reaper kneeling between his legs as he leaned over him, one hand wrapped around both their cocks, the other hand propping himself up over the soldier. 

At the first touch of their cocks together, they both groaned, the feeling of soft skin over hard steel pressed against each other so overwhelmingly good. The soldier clasped a hand around Reaper’s, guiding their strokes together and revelling in this private intimacy he had garnered for himself. He watched through slitted eyes as, through the view of his visor, Reaper began rocking their hips together as well, sliding their cocks against one another, the heads poking out of their overlapping fists with every stroke. 

“Fuck,” Reaper hissed, and the soldier didn’t think he’d ever heard a better sound in his life, the way Reaper’s voice broke on the word with pleasure. Heat was creeping up his own spine, a tightening in his lower belly that spelled out the end for him, and suddenly all the soldier could think about was that dream, the feeling of Reaper filling him up over and over again, of being held so closely, safe in their arms. Of the voice of someone who loved him, though he couldn’t remember them. Of a number, inscribed on the inside of a ring.

The soldier blinked back sudden tears welling in his eyes, tried to stop thinking about those dreams. Whoever 24 was, he was dead, and the soldier wasn’t getting him back. But Reaper was here, still moving above him, and the soldier focused back in on what was happening _here_ and _now_. 

He could hear Reaper panting now, little bitten off huffs of breath as they moved together. The soldier squeezed his fist around Reaper’s, tightening their shared grip, and they both groaned at the increased pressure. “Are you close?” the soldier asked, lifting his hips into each stroke, his whole body lighting up at the smooth slide of their cocks together. 

There was precum beading at the tip of Reaper’s cock. “Yeah,” Reaper groaned, hand moving faster and faster between them. A sudden, tight twist at the head had the soldier spilling over their hands with a cry, arching underneath Reaper as pleasure zipped up and down his spine. Reaper wasn’t far behind, a few more strokes with the soldier’s still-hard cock against his to push him over the edge with a broken groan, come spurting out against the soldier’s bare stomach.

They both came down panting, a slightly stunned silence broken only by their muted breaths.

“Maybe I should try to get caught more often, if this is the reward I get,” the soldier joked, breaking the still air. He grabbed a dirty shirt out of the duffle bag by the sleeping bag and used it to wipe the come off his stomach. Reaper startled, like the soldier’s words brought him suddenly back to the present.

“You were a goddamn idiot,” he snapped, letting the soldier sit up and backing away. He tucked his slowly softening cock back into his pants, still wet. “Going into the house alone like that, the place Widowmaker knows like the back of her hand! Even if the guards hadn’t caught you, you’d still be dead! She’d have shot you without you ever knowing she was there! And then everything you’ve been fighting for, everything _I’ve_ been fighting for--it would all be for nothing! Because you’d be dead, and Overwatch would have one less person fighting to expose the truth!”

The soldier stiffened at the mention of the sniper, the pleasant lethargy of his post-orgasm high draining instantly from his body and replaced by rage. “Don’t lecture me about Overwatch,” he snarled, also tucking himself back in. He stood up, stalking into Reaper’s space until they were nearly chest-to-chest, but this time, the close contact had no sexual tension whatsoever. 

“Overwatch was led by a corrupt, spineless son of a bitch who abused the trust everyone put in him. He traded lives for money, peace for power, and brought the world to its knees for Talon,” he said, every word like a bullet from his lips.

“Shut the fuck up,” Reaper said, “You don’t know anything about what you’re talking about.” But the soldier couldn’t, the tide of anger welling up in him and overwhelming him. He had to make Reaper know, had to make him _understand_ that the man he was following even after death didn’t deserve that kind of loyalty, had never deserved it.

“Jack Morrison was a traitor who took bribes from Talon, knowingly sent Blackwatch members to their deaths, and conspired with Talon to have Amelie Lacroix kidnapped and _tortured_ so she could kill her husband,” the soldier spat, venom dripping from his voice. He could feel his fingers trembling, a sick heat in his chest that told him to just _punch_ something, beat it into a pulp, imagine it was Morrison’s smarmy face that he was crushing beneath his boot. “Overwatch fell because he killed it, and he got crushed in the aftermath.”

“You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” Reaper said, and his voice was cold, deadly, an artificial calm laying like a thin layer of ice over it. “Jack Morrison devoted everything he had to stopping Talon. He _died_ trying to stop them. He was the best man I’ve ever known, no matter what other people say about him.”

“You knew him personally?” the soldier exclaimed, feeling hysteria rise up in his throat, choking him like weeds. “You knew him and you saw _nothing_? Either you’re stupider than I thought, or he was a better actor than I could have ever imagined.” 

“The day Amélie Lacroix went missing, I didn’t see Jack Morrison sleep for _two months_ ,” Reaper hissed, putting a hand on the soldier’s chest and pushing him back slightly, putting space between them. “The only person happier than Jack when she was found alive and apparently no worse for the wear was her husband, Gerard. And the day Gerard was murdered, Jack Morrison was _broken_. He swore revenge on Talon by any means necessary, and it killed him. So whatever bullshit you’re spewing, get it out of my face. You don’t deserve to even say his name.”

“We both set out on this quest to find answers, and now when I’ve found them, you won’t listen to me!” the soldier yelled. “Are you that fucking dense? Jack Morrison is _dead_ , and a dead man who had people murdered in cold blood does not deserve even the slightest scrap of defense from good men like you!”

That startled Reaper into a chilling laugh. “You think I’m a good man?” he sneered, stepping back even further from the soldier. “You know nothing about me, and you’re a gullible fool. That much is clear.” He looked around the decrepit barn once before staring at the soldier again. “Contact me when you’ve gotten your head out of your ass,” he said. “You might think you’ve gotten to the bottom of this, but you’re wrong. I’m going to keep looking.” He dissolved into smoke, dissipating into the shadows.

“Go to hell,” the soldier muttered tiredly, sitting back down on the sleeping bag. Everything hurt. The hollow ache behind his heart blossomed again. _I’m sorry, 24_ , he thought. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so weak.

***

Reaper materialized behind Sombra’s computer and she rolled her eyes. “What?” she asked, tapping away at her keyboard, fingers a blur of purple-pink light.

“You’re going to fuck up your back if you keep sitting like that,” Reaper said, voice nearly a growl as he took in the strangely contorted way she was sitting in her chair. 

“Did you come here to do something other than bother me?” she scolded, but untwisted enough so that her legs touched the floor. “Spit it out, Gabe.”

“I told you not to call me that,” he growled, then hesitated. “Can you do a scan through the communications archives for anything involving Jack Morrison?”

Sombra raised a slim eyebrow, but her fingers were already moving. “That’s going to turn up a lot of stuff,” she said. “Any other search parameters so we can narrow the results down?”

“...Search for any messages _from_ Morrison,” Reaper said quietly. Sombra’s other eyebrow went up, but a smile was breaking across her face.

“Oh, interesting!” she said, typing even faster. Code flew across the screen and more and more files were located, stacking up on the side. Sombra gave a low whistle. “Looks like the Golden Boy had more than a little tarnish, huh,” she said, shooting Reaper a look.

Reaper didn’t pay attention to her. He was scanning each message. They were good. Same email, correct date stamps, very official looking, except…

“He didn’t write these,” he said.

“What are you talking about? It looks pretty clear that he did.”

He shook his head. “No,” he said, “Whoever did this was good, but the tone of these are all wrong. For short messages like these, he wouldn’t write like this. Can you figure out where these messages originated from?”

Sombra frowned up at him, her fingers flying over the keys once more. “...Huh,” she said staring at her screen. Reaper frowned, looking at it as well, but wasn’t sure what it was saying.

“What?” he asked, looming behind her. 

“They came from Talon,” she said, “But it looks like they were scrambled through an outside mail server? Maybe even several outside servers, so that by the time they came back into Talon, they looked totally new.” She kept tapping at keys, leaning forward in her seat in excitement. “That’s not all. The dates are also wrong; the source code’s been tampered with. These were written...after the Overwatch HQ explosion, I think. After Jack Morrison’s death.”

Reaper frowned, thinking. “Why would Talon put in this much effort to create fake messages linking Jack Morrison to us?” he asked. “It’s not very effective; he’s dead. No one can discover these and call for his arrest or have Overwatch shut down or anything...”

Understanding hit like a meteor. “Erase every single one of those messages,” he snarled at Sombra, already dissolving.

“Wait, where are you going?” she asked.

“I need to go tell someone he’s an idiot,” Reaper said before disappearing entirely.

Sombra rolled her eyes. “Typical,” she muttered. She pretzeled back into her previous position.

***

The soldier woke to a looming shadow standing over him and immediately kicked out, grabbed the pulse rifle, and let off a volley of shots that went right through Reaper and punched holes in the already-rickety barn roof. 

“You awake now? Or are you still planning on shooting at me?” Reaper asked, and the soldier blinked tiredly. His eyes felt gritty and hot, exhaustion seeping through every fiber of his being.

“What?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbows and glaring blearily at Reaper. Why was everything faintly reddish-orange? Oh, right. He’d fallen asleep with the mask and visor on. Small miracles, he supposed, since Reaper had seen fit to burst in and wake him. “What do you want?”

“Everything you found was made up by Talon as part of a posthumous smear campaign against Jack Morrison to ensure no organization like Overwatch could ever exist again,” Reaper said.

The soldier blinked behind his mask. “What?” he repeated.

“You said you found proof that Jack Morrison was colluding with Talon,” Reaper said, words coming quickly. “That he was taking bribes from them, conspired with them, allowed them to kidnap and turn Amélie Lacroix and kill Gerard Lacroix. Your proof isn’t true. I found all those messages, and they didn’t come from Jack Morrison. They came from inside Talon, and then they were planted at key Talon partner locations around the world so that whatever authority found them first could use them as examples of why an international peacekeeping organization like Overwatch can never and should never be allowed to exist again. Which, in turn, gives Talon much more lateral control if they don’t have to worry about Overwatch 2.0 breathing down their necks. Simple enough explanation for you?”

The soldier sat up fully, looking at Reaper. “I don’t believe you,” he said, mind kicking into overdrive. “That’s a pretty decent lie, though. Sounds just crazy enough to be true, but also simple enough to be real. So points for creativity, I suppose.”

“Why would I come back and lie to you?” Reaper exclaimed, and the soldier wavered. No, there was no way Jack Morrison could be the upstanding hero Reaper said he was.

“I don’t know what kind of trick you’re trying to pull,” the soldier said, pulling the small pistol he kept loaded in his bag and training it on Reaper, “But if you don’t get out of here, I’m going to shoot you faster than you can imagine. You won’t have time to dissolve. You must be a...a triple agent, or something.” He could hear his voice wavering, and the soldier cursed himself for the weakness he was suddenly showing. Reaper was supposed to be _nothing_ to him. A couple of vague, half-remembered dreams were supposed to change that. He gripped the gun tighter in his hands. “Leave me alone.”

“You called me blind earlier,” Reaper said, voice quiet but resigned. Already, the edges of the man were beginning to dissolve into the air. “But you can’t see past your own convictions. Look up the Soldier Enhancement Program, and then tell me that someone who was so selfish would willingly submit themselves to that kind of pain, that kind of suffering, if they didn’t know they could make the world better.” He was nearly gone, just a few more wisps of black smoke being borne away by the wind. “Tell me if you still think Jack Morrison would have jeopardized everything he’d built for the finite money and power Talon promised him.”

A final tendril of wind curled across the soldier’s face, leaving him alone in the barn, limbs trembling as he attempted to figure out what had just happened.

The SEP was as good a start as any, he decided. Maybe there was some insight to be found within the program.


	6. Shanghai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've made it!!! Thank you all so, so much for reading this fic, and for all the wonderful comments you guys have been leaving me. I hope this ending satisfies, and I hope that you guys all enjoyed the story! And I hope you also enjoyed Shana's art -- they really outdid themselves for this chapter!!!!!!!

Tracking down information about the SEP was much more difficult than the soldier suspected. There were some vague references to it on the Internet, but nothing concrete. It was a whispered program, a bogeyman in the night that posters in various forums referred to as part of their long-winded arguments with each other. He needed something more substantial, more precise.

Finally, _finally_ he came across some useful information, actually buried deep within some of the stolen data files he’d taken from Talon. A project overview description had been corrupted and was no longer accessible, but a list of surviving personnel remained. The soldier clicked on it in curiosity, opening up a file filled with numbers that scrambled to reveal the enlistment information and personnel files for around 150 troops: the only surviving members of a grueling training program known only as the SEP.

The soldier scrolled through the list idly, not sure of what he was supposed to be gleaning from the list of mostly-dead experiments. They had been enhanced, apparently, a group of soldiers chosen for their resilience and survivability, experimented on and pumped full of chemicals that increased their abilities. Soldier: 08. Soldier: 17. Soldier: 42. Soldier: 55. Soldier: 76. The numbers marched on, cursor blinking as the soldier tried to figure out what he was supposed to do.

He paused on the entry for Soldier: 76, a sudden robotic voice in his head reading out “Overwatch personnel code 0000000076 identified” as blood ran down his face. 

He clicked on it.

_John ‘Jack’ Morrison aka Soldier: 76, Bloomington, Indiana,_ the personnel file read. A picture of a younger Jack Morrison stared out from the screen at the soldier, blonde hair cut short on top of his head, but with the same tired blue eyes he’d seen in the mirror countless times since waking up scared and alone and running from the explosion in Zurich.

He-- _he_ was Jack Morrison.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the soldier fell to his knees on the ground with a cry, a lightning-sharp pain spearing through his head. Memories were filtering in fast, faster than he was able to process: leaving the family farm in Indiana, joining the army, being selected for the SEP. The pride he’d felt at being asked to join such an elite group, the pain of the treatments, being pushed to every possible limit during training.

And he remembered meeting Gabriel Reyes. Soldier: 24. How beautiful he was, poised and confident even in the face of certain death. The way he commanded with ease. How they confided in each other, becoming fast friends as they fought against the end of the world together. How he could be brutal, but so loving. A juxtaposition of traits that only made Jack love him more and more.

The way Gabriel’s face had lit up with joy and pride when Jack had been named Strike Commander of Overwatch. The way they’d kissed each other tenderly after the ceremony. “I can’t do this without you,” Jack had said, whispered into the space between them, like he was confessing a secret both of them already knew.

“I’m not going to leave you, Jack,” Gabriel had replied, and Jack had never felt safer.

He didn’t remember much about being Strike Commander; a few bits and pieces floated in, coated mostly in massive amounts of stress, with some pieces of fear, elation, anger thrown in for good measure. But he remembered Gabe’s ever-constant presence at his side, the way Gabriel would look at him with a secret smile during boring UN council meetings, the way Gabriel pushed him to be a better Commander every passing day.

Then, nothing but fear, and the memory of an explosion, the noise eclipsing everything with a massive roar. The smell of smoke and ash and blood in his nose, screaming Gabriel’s name as his whole world collapsed around him. Blood dripping into his mouth from his face. And then, darkness, as a chunk of concrete broke off and hit him in the head.

The soldier-- no, _Jack_ \--scrambled to his feet and ran into the bathroom of yet another dingy motel, emptying what felt like the entire contents of his stomach in the past decade into the toilet.

Shivering on the bathroom floor, he confronted the truth: He was Jack Morrison. Had he done those things Talon had accused him of? He couldn't remember. It was more than possible. But he did know that Gabriel was _dead_ , and Jack had caused that at least. Closing his eyes, Jack rested his head against the grimy porcelain, tears tracking down his scarred cheeks. If he’d done _more_ , all those years ago, Gabriel would be alive, and this waking nightmare would never have occurred.

Heaving into the toilet, Jack Morrison came to the only conclusion possible: If Gabriel was dead, then he was going to avenge him and go down swinging. He'd make up for his failures. And if he couldn't make up for them, well. Then at least the memory of Gabriel Reyes would be honored. 

***

Jack turned the slim, blocky phone over and over in his hands. He had no idea if it even worked anymore. He didn’t know if he _wanted_ it to work or not. What he’d done with Reaper...his stomach flipped unpleasantly at the memory. He couldn’t deny his interest in the man, but suddenly it felt like he was stomping all over the memory of what he had with Gabriel.

Sighing, Jack turned on the phone, finger hovering over the call button. There were three voicemails, all from Reaper, trying to get in contact with him. He should call him back. Tell him what was going on. Tell him that he was suddenly 110% committed to Reaper’s plan to tear Talon down and avenge the memory of Overwatch. The memory of Gabriel. 

Yeah, he could just imagine how that conversation would go down.

_Hey, remember how I yelled in your face and told you that Jack Morrison was a lying traitor who deserves to be run through with a rusty pipe? Well, turns out I’m Jack Morrison. Crazy how the world works, huh! Anyway, remember how you talked about how Talon had taken everything from you? Mind if I join in your quest to avenge it’s memory?_

He turned the phone off and tucked it back into his bag. No. He started out on this mission alone, and he was going to finish it alone. Leave behind a better world -- or at least, a world without Talon -- than the one he’d help create. And then no one would ever have to hear about Jack fucking Morrison ever again. Just the way he wanted it.

(And in some deep part of his heart, he knew he’d never forgive himself if Reaper, that bitchy, wonderful asshole, was caught in the crossfire of Jack’s new plan. Reaper had already given so much for both Jack Morrison and the soldier: he couldn’t ask him to do any more.)

He needed to cut the head off the snake, all at once. So far he’d been playing easy ball, running around and poking at Talon’s back, taking out small operations here and there around the world. He was about as annoying as a mouse, and about as destructive too. Sure, there was some grain falling out of the holes he’d chewed, but he needed to do more.

Shanghai. That’s where the next Talon council meeting was going to be held, Reaper had mentioned it just before...before everything had blown up in Jack’s face. That’s where he needed to go. They’d all be there, including Reaper; Jack could send one last message to Reaper, tell him to get out before everything went to hell, take them all down at once. Leave the body of the organization scrambling to figure out what to do, and let the new Overwatch clean up the mess.

A strange sort of peace overtook him as he realized he might not come back from this. Maybe… maybe that was for the best. _I started this war_ , he thought. _I’m going to be the one to finish it._

***

The full moon rose over the shining streets of Shanghai, its face washed out by the neon lights below that lit up the city. It was a clear, balmy night, and the streets were filled with people out enjoying their weekend, packing into restaurants and laughing and chatting with each other.

Jack Morrison stood smoking in the entrance to an alleyway, a hood up over his head and the pulse rifle slung across his back, tucked away carefully in a large bag. He watched the entrance to a high-end Cantonese restaurant just across the street, keeping his eyes trained carefully on the door as throngs of people passed in and out of sight. Everyone going into the restaurant was incredibly well-dressed, and Jack couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

Doomfist may have been calling for a new war so that humanity could evolve and improve, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t profiting off of the fruits of Vialli’s labors in turning Talon into an economic powerhouse around the world.

A long, sleek car pulled up to the restaurant, and Jack recognized the back of Doomfist’s head as he got out of the car, holding out a hand and helping a slender woman out as well. Her skin was blue through the sheer back of her elegant dress.

Ah. Here was Widowmaker. Jack felt his heart clench in his chest as a sudden memory of her laughing prettily on Gerard’s arm, one of the few times he’d seen her around the Watchpoints. She was still just as beautiful, but her face looked...hard now, almost. Merciless.

The two of them walked into the restaurant, and he knew it was time to move. Flicking the cigarette to the ground and grinding it out with his heel, Jack strode forward, disappeared into the crowd and darted into the alleyway behind the restaurant. A door was open by the kitchen’s dumpster, light spilling out into the narrow passage, and he could hear the clanging of pots and pans and plates from inside, shouts and orders being passed around. He skirted past the opening and bounded up the wall to a large vent that had already been loosened from its opening, and slipped inside.

The meeting was taking place in the restaurant’s basement, in a secluded room reserved for business meetings and illicit deals. He’d scouted the restaurant a few days earlier, hacked into their reservations listings using the datakey Reaper had given him. Turned out it was good for more than just Talon tech. The vent system was fairly large and maneuverable. He wondered if Talon would ever learn. Well, hopefully after tonight, they wouldn’t need to.

He paused a few meters into the shaft, carefully laying his bag down and pulling out the pulse rifle, his mask, and some localized explosives he’d been able to snag from another shutdown Watchpoint. He clicked the mask and visor into place carefully before beginning the crawl down to the basement. The ventilation system was extensive and winding, but Jack wasn’t really in much of a rush.

At the last moment, he took out Reaper’s phone and turned it on. After a few seconds of booting up, the screen lit up with nearly a dozen missed messages from Reaper. He ignored them all.

_Don’t go to the dinner tonight_ , he typed, then pressed send before he could second-guess himself, turned the phone off and slid it back into his pocket.

Time to go.

***

Reaper startled slightly as he felt the phone buzz in the pocket of the elaborate suit he was wearing, eyes growing wide behind his mask as he realized what it meant. The soldier.

Carefully sliding it out of his pocket at the table, Reaper checked the message and felt his heart drop into his stomach. No. No, the soldier couldn’t -- whatever he was planning, this was a _suicide_ mission.

He abruptly stood up, cutting off whatever Doomfist was saying. “Something wrong, Reaper?” Doomfist asked calmly, his voice smooth and deep. 

“I still haven’t gotten my drink,” Reaper said. “I’m going to go find the waitress. Please, keep going. I’m sure someone will fill me in on your excellent plans to plunge the world into chaotic war.” He turned and marched out of the room before anyone could voice a protest.

Looking around the empty hallway just outside the meeting room, Reaper pulled out the phone again and tried to call the soldier. Nothing, just the voicemail like every other time before. “Answer me, goddammit,” he hissed, hanging up angrily. Casting around, he took a deep breath, forcing himself to stop and think. He _knew_ the soldier, knew how he thought and fought and felt. He needed to get inside his head, figure out what exactly the soldier was planning.

And then he heard the faint groan of metal in the ceiling, and he knew.

Dissolving into smoke, Reaper pushed himself through a vent in the wall and into the ventilation system overhead. Sure enough, there was the soldier, crawling slowly through the narrowing pipes with his massive gun. Reaper rematerialized just enough to say “Don’t throw up,” before grabbing the soldier and dissolving again, transporting them to the restaurant’s private bathroom.

“You’re ruining it!” the soldier said, and Reaper stepped back, a little shocked at the sheer vitriol and anger in the soldier’s words.

“I’m saving your life!” he retorted. “You can thank me any time you’d like.”

“Goddammit, I have to do this! And you have to leave!” the soldier said, trying to shove past him and out the door. 

“Why are you even here?” Reaper asked, shoving a hand into the soldier’s chest and pinning him against the tile wall behind them. “I thought you got your answers. I thought you decided Overwatch wasn’t worth it.”

“Doesn’t mean I still want Talon to be running around and killing more people,” the soldier said, trying to push his way out of Reaper’s grip. His movements were becoming more and more frantic. “They’re all here, don’t you get it? Now’s my chance! And you have to get out of here!”

“Goddammit,” Reaper hissed, bringing up his other hand to pin the soldier more firmly against the wall. “No! I won’t let you do this! I want revenge, yes, but the memory of Overwatch is _not_ worth dying for! That’s not what Overwatch would have wanted!”

“I don’t care!” the soldier shouted, suddenly ripping one of his arms free from Reaper’s grasp and reaching up. Reaper flinched slightly, but all the soldier did was press against a small latch holding his mask and visor in place and --

And let the mask clatter to the floor.

***

“Figured it out yet?” Jack hissed at Reaper, who had frozen in front of him. “You knew him, right? Knew me? Well, here we are! It’s me, Jack Morrison, back from the dead and still trying to clean up the messes he created!” 

He wrenched himself entirely out of Reaper’s grip. “Yeah, I did what you said. Looked into the SEP, and a lot of it came back. The memories, I mean. Well, some of them, at least. And-- and Overwatch is _gone_ because of me, and so is Gabriel, so now I’m doing this one last thing to make sure Talon never plagues the world again, and then I can go too!” He was panting with rage by the end of his tirade, eyes stinging at the mention of Gabriel.

Reaper said nothing, did nothing, and Jack rolled his eyes and made to push past him. “Get out of here,” he said once more. “I don’t want you to be caught in the crossfire.”

That seemed to push Reaper into action, and he caught Jack’s arm once more, pulling him away from the door.

“Jack?” Reaper said, voice quiet, almost dazed.

Jack tried to free himself once more from Reaper’s grip. “Get out of the way if you aren’t going to help,” he growled, but Reaper refused to let go.

“Jack,” Reaper repeated, bringing up his other hand and detaching his mask as well, letting it clatter to the ground alongside Jack’s. Gabriel’s face -- a little grayer, a little more scarred -- stared back at him, Gabriel’s warm brown eyes not wavering from Jack’s face. “It’s me, Jack,” Reaper -- no, _Gabriel_ said, and Jack felt his knees give way, nearly falling before Gabriel caught him, pulled him into an embrace.

“I saw you die,” Jack whispered, head tucked into the crook between Gabriel’s neck and shoulder, taking shaking handfuls of Gabriel’s suit jacket in his hands. Was this… was this real? Could Jack trust this moment, or was it just another trick of his broken, scarred up mind?

“I did die, Jack, and I thought you did, too,” Gabriel said. “But we’re both here. Together again.” He laughed wetly, and Jack looked up in surprise to see some tears at the corners of Gabriel’s eyes. “God, we’ve been around each other for _months_ without knowing who the other one was. We’re such fucking idiots.”

“To be fair, I didn’t remember much of anything,” Jack said with his own wet laugh. “I woke up from the explosion and didn’t even know my own name. I wouldn’t have known you, even if I tried.”

He remembered the ring and got it out of his pocket. “But even when I didn’t remember you, I had this,” he said, holding up the silver band to the light. The inscription on the inside was clear. “I knew I’d lost someone important, and it was the most painful thing to not remember who. And then when I did remember, and I thought I’d lost you -- it nearly broke me again. Getting revenge and joining you was all I could think about for the past month.”

Gabriel reached into his shirt and pulled out a chain with a matching silver ring threaded onto it. _24: We are whole together even when apart. Love, 76,_ it read inside the ring. “We’ll figure something else out,” Gabriel said, watching Jack’s eyes widen at the sight of the ring. “Don’t go blowing yourself up for me when I’m still around, okay? We’ve survived too much for that to happen now.”

“You’re such a fucking sap,” Jack said, laughing as tears rolled down his cheeks. God, Gabriel was _alive_ , he was _here_ , and he wanted Jack still, had never stopped loving him. It was more than he could have ever dreamed. “It’s been too long since I last kissed you. Sorry if I’m not that good anymore.”

Gabriel kissed him before he could say anything else, and it was like coming home.

***

“Ah, shit, Gabriel, please!” Jack moaned, throwing his head back as Gabriel took him deeper into his mouth, hot wet heat surrounding his cock. One of Gabriel’s firm, beautiful hands was wrapped around the base, holding Jack steady while he bobbed up and down, applying careful, intense pressure to the head. 

Jack’s hands didn’t know what to do, fluttering around Gabriel’s head, fisting the sheets of the swanky Shanghai hotel bed they’d ended up in, touching his own chest and stomach. Eventually Jack ended up with one of his hands in his own hair, tugging and pulling at it, and the other hand resting on Gabriel’s head, feeling the soft hairs of his buzz cut under his palm. It felt so good: Gabriel flicked his tongue against the underside of Jack’s frenulum, pressing it against the sensitive head before sucking him down until Jack hit the back of his throat. Jack was moaning non-stop, already feeling like he was about to explode as Gabriel blew him leisurely, both of them naked on the soft bed.

(They’d left the restaurant almost immediately, slipping out the back through the kitchens, and Gabriel had taken them to this hotel. “I want to lay you out against the sheets and have you singing for me,” he’d said into Jack’s ear, smiling in delight as Jack had shuddered and pulled him in for a wet, open, desperate kiss.)

There was just the slightest hint of teeth as Gabriel pulled up off of Jack’s cock, panting slightly and smiling up at Jack, taking in the flush on his face that was spreading down his neck and across his chest. “You look so amazing,” he rasped, voice husky from having Jack’s cock down his throat. “Let me hear you, sweetheart. We have so much lost time to make up for.” One hand reached into his discarded suit and drew out a fresh bottle of lube, which he clicked open, drizzling some across the fingers of one hand, rubbing them together to warm it up.

“Gabe,” Jack said again, another moan escaping his throat as Gabriel took Jack’s cock back into his mouth, tongue tracing the vein on the underside as he sank down onto it. “Please, I need you so much, fuck!” Another deep moan tore into the air as Gabriel smoothly lifted Jack’s legs into the air, placing them over his shoulders and tracing one wet finger around Jack’s now-exposed hole. The hand Jack had on Gabe’s head tightened, and he pulled at his own hair, revelling in the bright spots of pain that melded with the pleasure.

“Relax for me, Jack,” Gabriel said, licking a stripe up Jack’s cock. With a sigh, Jack felt himself unclench, and suddenly Gabriel’s finger was pressing in, slowly, up to the first knuckle. 

“God, it’s been so long, Gabe,” Jack said with a small, broken laugh. 

“The body remembers.” Gabriel smiled up at him, twisting his finger and pressing even deeper inside Jack. “Just like I remember this--”

Starbursts of pleasure erupted inside Jack as Gabriel’s finger pressed against his prostate suddenly, the firm pressure sending spasms through his legs as he shook in Gabriel’s arms, an incomprehensible shout leaping from his mouth. As the pleasure faded, Jack realized that Gabriel had used the distraction to slip another finger inside him, and he smiled down at Gabriel between his legs. “You tricky asshole!” he laughed. 

Gabriel smirked up at him. “I know what you like,” he said simply, thrusting the two fingers in and out of Jack, scissoring them to help stretch him open. “God, you’re so tight,” he said, staring at his fingers disappearing into Jack over and over again. “Can’t believe how long it’s been.”

A sudden longing overtook Jack, and he raised his arms, beckoning for Gabriel to embrace him. Readjusting his position, Gabriel laid alongside Jack, slipping a leg in between his and continuing to finger him. They kissed languidly, tenderly, reacquainting themselves with the other’s mouth, their tongue, their taste. “I’m so happy you’re back,” Jack whispered, breaking one of the kisses to blink at Gabriel, more tears welling in his eyes and sliding down his cheeks.

“It’s gonna take more than an explosion of everything we’ve ever worked to build together to kill me,” Gabriel said, pressing tiny, dotting kisses to Jack’s cheeks, kissing away every tear. He stroked over Jack’s prostate with his fingers again, feeling Jack shudder and clench around him with a cry. “So fucking perfect for me, Jack.”

Jack was panting as he opened his eyes again. “I’m not gonna last much longer,” he admitted. “It’s been too long. So if you want to feel me come on your cock, you’d better get on with it.” He smirked as Gabriel sucked in a breath at his words, feeling Gabriel’s cock stiffen even more against him. “Yeah, come on Gabe, need you to fuck me,” he said, words spilling uncontrollable from his mouth, “Want to feel it so bad!”

Gabriel kissed him again, hard, biting Jack’s lower lip before pulling away and reposition himself back between Jack’s legs again. “Don’t come yet,” he warned, pulling his fingers out and pouring some more lube on them. “Don’t touch yourself if you feel like you’re about to come, either.” 

Jack groaned at his words but obeyed, bringing his hands up over his head and bracing himself against the headboard of the hotel bed. “If you’d hurry things up, this wouldn’t be an issue,” he joked.

“You just don’t want to admit you’re old and out of practice,” Gabriel said with a grin, pressing three fingers against Jack’s entrance and pushing inside, laughing as Jack opened his mouth to retort but couldn’t, the only sound coming out a low moan. “Yeah, that’s it Jack,” Gabriel murmured, thrusting the fingers in and out, loosening Jack up, “Gonna feel so good when I fuck you.”

“I’m ready, I’m ready,” Jack said after a few more minutes of Gabriel opening him, pushing back against Gabriel’s hand every time he thrust his fingers in. He felt loose and slick and _empty_. “Come on, fuck me already, Gabe, please!” He knew he was borderline begging but he didn’t care; he was so close, and Gabriel was above him, outlined by the light of the room and looking for all the world like the angel he was named after, and this was everything Jack had never thought he’d get to have again.

Gabriel withdrew his fingers, using the excess lube to slick himself up before getting some more from the bottle. “What, you planning on going down a slip-n-slide?” Jack asked with a laugh. Gabriel just gave him a flat look, his cock glistening as he stroked it, using his other hand to open Jack’s legs even wider.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, leaning in to give Jack a kiss, the head of his cock pressing lightly against Jack’s entrance. “You may be ready, but it’s still been a while, Jack.”

“Mmm,” Jack hummed against Gabriel’s lips. His hands came up to Gabriel’s shoulders, wrapping around and pulling Gabriel down against him. “Such a gentleman. You’re very considerate, Gabe. There, I’ve flattered you. Will you fuck me now?”

Gabriel burst out a laugh, but he was already guiding his cock inside, pressing carefully, firmly against Jack’s hole until the head finally pushed in, both of them pausing to moan at how good it felt. Gabriel waited a moment or two for Jack to relax before he started pushing in even more, sliding slowly inside, filling Jack up until he thought he was going to burst, and it felt so good, pressing against all the right spots, hot and slick inside him. 

“So fucking tight,” Gabriel bit out, finally bottoming out with his hips pressed against Jack, “God, you feel so fucking good, Jack, I’ve missed this so much, missed _you_ so much-- ah!” he trailed off with a cry as Jack clenched around him experimentally, moaning lowly.

It took Jack a minute to adjust to the feeling of Gabriel seated fully inside him, a little painful but so good, tiny shudders of sensation zipping up and down his spine at every little movement he made that pressed Gabriel’s cock against a different part of him. After a few moments, he felt himself relax, and nodded at Gabriel. “I’m ready,” he said, kissing him. “Fuck me, Gabe, please.”

With a groan, Gabriel pulled out just an inch or so before pressing back inside, slow and steady, the weight of his cock inexorable inside of Jack. Both of them moaned at the sensation, and Gabriel did it again, pulling out just a little farther this time, thrusting back in a little faster. They built up a rhythm until Gabriel was pounding in and out of Jack, their hips hitting with a satisfying smack of flesh with every thrust. 

Jack curled his legs around Gabriel’s waist, holding on for dear life as Gabriel nailed him into the bed, near constant moans spilling from his lips along with incomprehensible babble, words that made no sense when they were strung together. But above all else, Jack moaned Gabriel’s name over and over again, saying it like he was trying to make up for all the time he’d spent not saying it, mourning a man he knew he loved but couldn’t remember the name of.

A starburst of pleasure grew in the pit of his stomach with every thrust, every time Gabriel’s cock tagged his prostate. He could feel his balls tightening, the orgasm beginning to sweep over him. His hands were gripping Gabriel’s back, raking lines down the skin and feeling the muscle beneath, keeping himself tethered to Gabriel for every thrust that threatened to move him up the bed. Gabriel was panting in his ear, kissing his neck, his shoulder, ragged groans being puffed against Jack’s heated skin. They were both so close, Jack could tell, still knew when Gabriel was about to come. His thrusts were growing choppy and irregular, but still hard, still so fucking good.

“Come on, come on,” Jack moaned, “Come for me, Gabe, wanna feel it so bad.” His own cock was trapped between their stomachs, sliding against the hard muscle of Gabriel’s abs. He didn’t even have to wrap a hand around himself, could tell he was going to come just like this.

Jack’s orgasm hit him like a truck, locking up his body and clenching around Gabriel’s cock still moving within him. His cock spurted between them, hot and wet over their stomachs. He panted his way through it, listening to the way Gabriel moaned Jack’s name, thrusting a few more times before filling Jack up with hot, wet come. 

The come down was easy, Gabriel stroking his hands through Jack’s hair and whispering incoherent loving nonsense into his collarbone. Jack winced as he unlocked his legs from around Gabriel’s waist, his muscles protesting at being used this way for the first time in a while. When Gabriel was finally soft, he pulled carefully out of Jack, who hissed at the sudden feeling of emptiness inside. 

“This was everything I didn’t know I needed,” Jack whispered, closing his eyes and pressing a kiss to the side of Gabriel’s head. “Thank you.”

“You came back to me,” Gabriel said, and his voice broke slightly. A few tears spilled onto his cheeks, sliding down into his graying beard. “I never imagined I’d get to have this again. I love you so much, Jack.”

“I love you, too,” Jack said, kissing Gabriel sweetly, lips closed. “I loved you even when I didn’t know who I loved.” He paused, a sudden thought making his heart jump into his throat. “Are you...are you going back to Talon?” he asked, trying to swallow and failing.

“No,” Gabriel said, tone definitive, and Jack could breathe again. “Actually, I was thinking...those kids in the new Overwatch. They could probably use some help, especially from people who are intimately familiar with Talon. What do you say?” He smiled at Jack, whose breath caught at how bright and shining the man he loved was. “Want to join Overwatch with me?”

Jack smiled back at him, hearing that first question from so long ago. A lifetime ago. His answer was just the same now as it was then.

“Yes, Gabe. Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry! This story is finished, but I will be posting a chapter at a time over the next few weeks. Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy!!!


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